Chapter 1: The Waiting Room
Chapter Text
Charles walks towards the entrance of the Milton Keynes factory like the whole building owes him an apology. These people don't know him, they can't tell all of this confidence is just adrenaline trying to keep him from collapsing. He's blasting his trusted hyped up playlist into his sound-blocking headphones. Every step matching the rhythm. It's enough of an distraction to keep him going. Underneath it all, he isn't sure if he can make it past the lobby without throwing up.
Loyal wasn't loyal enough. Dedicated wasn't dedicated enough. Charles broke his own heart by switching to a rival team the most.
What seemed like an impossible suggestion few years ago, turned into the only glimmer of hope regarding the rest of his career that wasn't completely laced with bitterness. His time, unlike Ferrari's, is not infinite. Red Bull called. Charles answered. And now, he's switched his personal "Monaco curse" for the universal "Red Bull second seat" nightmare.
This morning when he woke up, part of him still hoped this is all just a hazy fever dream.
It's not. The stargazed smile on the receptionists face only confirms it.
He's being led by a similarly nervous intern, who does way worse job than Charles with hiding their fear. But they probably don't have to, as the pressure on their shoulders lies only in getting the floor number right. Momentarily, Charles is jealous of the lightness this young person resonates, how able they are to let everyone know that they are in fact just a bit scared to do their job right. The giddiness he lost somewhere along the way.
He nods to everyone they pass. Not a single familiar face yet. Every time he's met with somewhat starstruck surprise, giving it all that more away that this late December visit is a secret one, not for the outsider eyes to know about. Only the deeply core team. Red Bull wants to get ahead of the game and Charles appreciates that. Still, it stings just bit to see that nobody comes over and asks for a photo – many did when Lewis first came to take a look around Maranello. Why would they. There already is a multi-year World Champion under their roof. And it's not Charles Leclerc. Max is embedded in the walls of this place, already breathing at the back of Charles' neck. It's his home, Charles left his way back in Italy.
They finally reach the destination of a mediocre meeting room, where Charles' new chapter begins and at last, he recognizes some of the faces.
Smiles spread around the table as he enters – there are engineers he's seen around the paddock, managers he remembers from the Zooms prior to his signing and in the middle of them all sit Christian Horner and Helmut Marko. Charles comes alone, only his trainer and manager following him to the new team. Everyone else stayed behind, swayed by the story Ferrari is able to sell so well. Fresh start. A lonely one. He shakes hands with everyone and tries to burn their names into his memory. He doesn't know who he'll have to impress, or win over, or conquer. But he intends to do all three.
Christian speaks first, all show and poise, as if he's announcing a new line of merchandise rather than the most controversial signing in years.
"We've got something special here, haven't we?" he says, gesturing toward Charles like he's unveiling a prototype rather than a man. "Helmut hasn't been this happy about a new signing since Max."
It lands in the room like a compliment, but Charles feels the backhand in it. He smiles anyway. Not the real one, the professional one. The one that says thank you, I'm thrilled, this doesn't make me want to crawl out of my skin at all.
He glances briefly at Helmut, who is, indeed, smiling. It's a rare, foxlike smile, the kind that suggests he's already ten moves ahead. Charles can't tell if it's good news or just another trap dressed in confidence. Few pleasantries fly around the room, landing anywhere but it Charles' heart.
"Is Max around?" he asks, pretending it's casual. Once again, he goes back to the memory of Lewis coming in the factory last year and how it was absolutely without a question that Charles had to be there to greet him.
Christian doesn't even flinch. "Not today."
It makes Charles nervous at first. No Max means no read, no intel. No sense of whether the worst of it—the power play, the scrutiny, the territorial coldness—is coming now or later. He hopes it will be different than it was with Lewis. He can't do another of the same charade. But then he realizes: Max's absence might actually be useful. It gives Charles a head start. A chance to breathe. Maybe even to plant a seed or two.
There's already a plan printed out for him, handed across the table like a guest itinerary.
- 09:30 – Brief factory tour
- 10:15 – Seat sizing
- 11:00 – PR session (closed, HOD's only)
It's the last one that matters today. That's where the real work begins. The rest of the meeting is fairly uneventful.
He has to put his hands to the pockets of his hoodie as they embark of the tour, because they keep shaking so much it might cause an impromptu visit from the medical team. Christian walks beside him, chatting lightly with one of the lead engineers, but Charles barely hears it. He used to walk the hallways of Maranello like a child would approach the playground of their hometown. His mind still recalls every corner of the Italian factory, the confident red and yellow decor brightening up every hard and long day when he and his old team tried to crack down the code to victory. And now, he's floating through the veins of the team that caused headache for so many years to many of those he still dares to call friends. There is a strange coldness that shines through the quiet of the rooms, stripped of noise, humming with efficiency and fresh legacy. They don't look at the past glorifying it, they are deep in the now and tomorrow. His face is everywhere: on walls, flickering across monitor screens, circled in segments of telemetry reports like a sacred text under study. Charles doubts they even realize it. But every other sentence spoken to him is coming back to Max. His preferences, his data, his legacy. Max does it this way. Max likes that corner softer. Max asked for this adjustment last year. It's all said casually, offhand, as if Max isn't just a colleague, but a gravitational field. Charles nods, absorbs, files it away. He knew what he signed up for. But deep down, something coils tight in his chest.
He's not here to worship or be worshiped. He chose to leave the place that had their daily schedule set up around him. Christian makes small talk, upbeat and fluid, but Charles can feel it beneath the words. This is Max's place.
Charles walks a step slower, just enough to let it sink in. This is what it means to enter a winning machine built for someone else. To step into the rival's altar – and pretend you belong. His hands don't stop shaking until he sees the new car they're building. Maybe because it's not done yet. And perhaps because someone actually asks for his opinion. He listens to the designer selling brief and then calmly puts him first input. Makes sure the team hears him saying that he's excited to work with them on the progress. Because one major fault of the place he used to call family? They never listened. Not really. It does not ease the heartbreak growing inside him in any way.
Max doesn't believe in grand gestures. That's why, when the "new guy", the latest "rookie" is in the process of walking to the first official meeting with the team, Max is home, halfway across the continent, barefoot and buttering toast.
He knows it's different this time – Charles Leclerc is not some junior driver pulled up too early from development. And Max hopes for the love of God that this teammate stays at least the season. He's fed up with the welcome videos, the team bonding barbecues, the forced grins in photos like they're the goddamn poster boys for modern masculinity. Last time, someone brought a guitar to dinner. Max nearly retired on the spot. There is no way anyone will see his face around Milton Keynes until January.
The intrusive thoughts of retiring have been plaguing Max's mind for some time. Red Bull in shambles, falling from grace and dragging Max down with them, and the other teams? Yeah, he's not Alonso. Not about to go on a mission of reviving some dying institution. Or maybe he is. These days, he's not sure.
One day he'll run his own team. But before that happens, he needs to take some well deserved break and find a way to get less sick of the paddock.
Charles Leclerc. Max stares out of the window overseeing the hometown of his new teammate. Gets lost in thoughts almost instantly.
Max has the same question on mind like the rest of the racing world. Is Charles going to be good enough in the Red Bull to equal him? Is the car really so shit only Max can make it come alive on a good day? There is not a single doubt in his mind about Charles being an exceptional driver. Finally, this year he'll get see if he's good enough.
It's annoyingly cinematic, the whole thing–some poetic little full circle. Max, alone in Monte Carlo, watching the same streets that made Charles, while he's in Milton Keynes, the place where Max became who he is today.
But the truth is, Max has been thinking about Charles for months. The transfer meetings. The media frenzy. The way people said finally, like Max had been winning in easy mode this whole time. Like Charles would be the noble challenger to his villain arc. Please.
He takes a bite of toast. Cold now. Figures.
They'll write headlines about tension and how Charles brings balance to the dark side of the garage. Max can already picture the press conference quotes. Half of them made up, the other half carefully scripted. They'll make it a rivalry before the engines even start. Part of him wishes they could just race in peace and cut the cameras off the second they get out of the cars.
Charles' mind runs freely when he's forced to sit down still for the following twenty minutes in the seat fitting. There is one light at the end of the tunnel that might end up saving Charles' legacy, which seems to be slipping away with every passing 'next year will be our year'. And that is the story of him and Max.
It's been too long since he sat in a car capable of fighting Max's on equal level, the opportunities to race his ultimate, destiny-written, rival scarce as sunshine hitting the windows of the England based factory. When they race, it's different than fighting with other drivers on track. Charles loves the elegance of it, the way he has to dig in his arsenal of moves and focus on surprising Max. It's not just figuring out the perfect racing line or balancing the late-breaking. With others it's purely technical. This is the objective and that is the optimal way to react. Not with Max.
High-end mind games need to played, he needs to be tricked. Charles can only hope the feeling is mutual. Given all the interviews and quick shallow remarks shared in the paddock, he allows himself to believe so. So, if there is one thing that gets him truly excited about this move, it's that he gets to chase Max properly. Gets to stare another curse in the eye and prove it wrong. Go big, or crash and burn. No more of playing the endless Ferrari waiting game.
Chapter 2: Corporate Posters
Summary:
Max's eyes trail over the suit. How it hugs Charles' frame as he steps closer, the navy blue broken by streaks of red and yellow like veins of lightning in a night sky.
It's unsettling.
Notes:
we need to have more meetings that could not have been emails before the smut begins
i don't make the rules
Chapter Text
The media team room isn't intimidating. That's the first surprise. No podium photos, no corporate posters with hashtags plastered over engine shots. Just a clean table, some tidy cables, two laptops already open, and coffee that smells a little too fresh to be accidental.
The second surprise is the smiles. Careful ones.
Julia–the PR lead–gets up from her chair the second he walks in, and Liam, who's introduced as 'Head of Content' but is definitely running the socials too, beams at him like Charles already won something.
"You made it," Julia says, not in a ceremonial way, but like she's actually been waiting for him.
Charles shakes their hands. It's warmer than the earlier team briefing, more human. Still, the silence in his ears is too loud, but the smile she gives him softens it.
"I did." It's automatic, the way he moves. Takes the seat like he's done this a hundred times. Because he has. It's just...It's been too long since he spoke to people who looked like they're not trying to hide something from him. The energy's different. Not obligatory. No one's scanning him for cracks in the surface. No one's wondering if he regrets signing.
"We're really excited to have you," Liam says, a little breathless. "Just so you know. All of us."
Julia sits again, folding her hands.
For the first time in months, Charles feels something close to welcome. It lights a small fire within him. The kind that can easily grow into a forest-burning one if untamed.
"We've kept things quiet so far, focusing on the 2025 season running its end. But we want to be ready to move fast once it's time. The news is out, but the moment we go all in, there's going to be noise. A lot of it."
She speaks like she owns the room. Or at least earned the right to pretend she does. It's a tone Charles respects.
"Good," he says. His hands fold, mirroring hers. "Let's shape it before someone else does."
The line earns him a shared look between Julia and Liam. Not surprised, but definitely excited.
"You'll want to meet Mia, my personal comms lead," he adds casually. "She's flying in after the holidays. I want her looped into everything– long-form, socials, press angles, tone. Take her word for mine."
He pauses. "I'll still be involved. But once the season starts, I won't have time to chase campaigns. That's where she comes in. Ideally working in sync with you."
Julia doesn't blink. If anything, she sits up straighter.
"That's… great, actually," she says. "Max doesn't like sharing anything, his PR officer usually just vetoes anything they can. And the juniors just nod through their prep sessions. This'll be new."
Charles allows himself a real smile, brief but cutting. "It'll be better."
Julia opens a document, turns the screen so he can see. There is a presentation staring at him, dark blue tones, catch phrases and tone markers. It's all very serious and vague. "The RB corporate team sent over some direction points," she explains. "Where they want the brand to evolve, now that you're here."
Long lasting rivalry. Two lions meeting. Challenge.
He won't be caught dead saying 'two lions' out loud. But fine, let them try and push for their jungle fantasy. Still, his smile fades out.
She clicks through the slides, talk brand identity, how they want to lean in to the fact they both been racing each other for decades now and on one of the AI mock up photos, there is even Charles standing in a literal shadow of Max, creeping behind him like he's about to rob him from behind. Charles does not react and it shakes up Julia and Liam just a bit, their initial confidence folding in. She diverts the conversation to explaining what his PR engagements might entail and Charles is already feeling the energy slip away. Liam then joins and talk about what type of video content they want to do, filming his first day at the factory, etc. Things that they've all seen before. Part of Charles is surprised they don't have a team podcast planned.
His best guess is that Max already scrapped that idea.
As the final slide stares at them, silence falls. Charles speaks slowly, testing the waters. "So, this is what corporate wants you to do?"
They both share a look, Julia reluctantly takes the lead. "With limitations we have had from Max's team regarding his engagement and the brand identity briefing, this what's been approved so far."
"I thought Red Bull is a fresh, brave brand," Charles remarks slowly, not blinking, as he stares at the two. "This does not feel like that."
The defense comes quickly. "Well, Ferrari and you had a very different branding presence. It was agreed that we will lean into a slow transition from the, let's say 'old money royalty' to 'sports fresh street style' slowly," she explains, quoting with her fingers.
Charles takes a deep breath. It's like the sudden beam of light he felt when walking in is dying out again. "I'm making arguably the biggest career move of my life. I can't 'transition slowly'. That sounds like a defeat already."
Julia nods, as if she understands, but her words speak a different story. "The corporate is afraid that you won't take in anything drastic change, given your PR contactual obligations with your sponsor brands."
In all honesty, Charles is surprised. His marketability had been a major selling point when they pursued him. Tossed around like currency in every call, every negotiation.
And now he's staring at this: a tired campaign deck in corporate blues, muted fonts, recycled taglines. AI-generated mockups that look like PowerPoint fever dreams. Empty words with no real story. If he even dares to compare it to the media frenzy crafted while Lewis' move to Ferrari, it's like a sad washed-out copy. Even Liam and Julia seem bored of the presentation. Detached.
"So far, it looks like what they want us to lean in is a story of me running away from Ferrari and chasing after whatever Max has. In the most predictable way possible," he criticizes and watches the mood of the room fall into a new low. He lets it hang in. If he manages to get some life back into these two, if he's able to sway them in on his side, they could play the essential key role in his life-altering move. But not if they're not willing to step up to the pressure of people above them. Not if the best they can do is 'two lions'.
"I can see it by the look on your faces, you're not excited about this. I'm definitely not excited. And what's worse than boring?" he asks with unintended bravado. Adds another second of silence before he continues.
"So, what kind of story do you want to tell?"
It catches the rest of the room off-guard. Not because it's confrontational, but because it looks like no one's ever asked it like that. Not here. Not seriously. Charles resists the urge to lean back and sigh like a jaded professor. For once, he'd like an answer that doesn't sound like it was run through five filters and a legal department.
Liam straightens a little, half-startled. Then leans in. "Honestly?"
Charles nods. Honestly. Liam glances at Julia, then back at Charles, and he exhales like he's been holding his breath through two team rebrands and four driver roll outs.
"Honestly… I want to do something that feels dangerous," he says. "Not scandalous. Just… like we're saying something real, for once."
He leans back, warming up.
"You've got the mythology built in. Everyone already sees you as the prince. Ferrari. Monaco. Tragedy. The quiet heartbreak. But we've never seen you question that story. Or burn it down. Or walk away from it."
Charles says nothing. Just listens. And that's worse, somehow.
"What if...Um, what if we didn't try to shift that image or soften it?," Liam keeps going, tripping over his words, but never really stopping. "What if we used it, turned it inside out? You don't have to become an ambassador of a street brand overnight. You just have to break people's idea of you. Once. On purpose. And they'll follow."
Julia, who had been quiet through Liam's slow, almost apologetic rebellion, finally speaks. Look on her face giving away that she's letting Charles in on a secret these two share only between themselves.
"What if we told the story you've never been allowed to tell?" she says, more to herself than to Charles. She shifts in her seat, then more decisively: "The story where you're not crowned. You're not chosen. You just take it. Without asking. Some will already paint you a villain just by leaving Ferrari. Breaking the hearts of the Tifosi. So, why not lean into it and steal the narrative? If we manage to come up with a strategy, that might earn us some of those 'unbreakable Ferrari fans' coming over to our camp, the corporate will have to listen to us."
Charles' face doesn't move, but the air around him shifts. His initial reaction is to tell them both to fuck off and leave his Ferrari legacy untouched. Years of protectiveness are not going to go away just with few words.
Still. That small, dangerous flame from earlier? It's fully awake now. It's clear these two have been quietly fighting to push their ideas for a while. Without allies or without leverage. Long enough that someone taking their side might feel like salvation. And that would mean getting first real people on this team who would fight for him and only him. The engineers? That battle’s already lost. Charles will cave to them. Sooner or later. To their data. Their hierarchy. To Max, directly or indirectly. This team is built around Max. Has been for years.
For now.
Julia and Liam?
Up for grabs, because Max does not care.
For now.
He says it like he's naming a memory: "They called me a prince." The room stills.
Charles runs a hand through his hair, slow. His voice is even, but it lands like a match. "They liked the idea of me. Clean. Pretty. Loyal. And I gave them that version. For a long time. Too long." His gaze sharpens. Direct. "I'm not here to be anyone's prince anymore."
Liam's fingers are already moving over his keyboard like they've got minds of their own.
Julia watches him with the focused energy of someone who's just felt the spark of something big and doesn't want to breathe wrong. She repeats the phrase under her breath, just to try it out:
"I'm not your prince."
Charles nods once. Like a confirmation.
Liam glances up, almost laughing. "Make that the rollout."
"As in, title?" Charles asks.
"As in, campaign. As in, story." He leans forward now, voice measured, cutting through the air like glass.
Julia joins in. "Liam's right. Like you said, the drop out should feel like a rupture. Not an some scared acceptance. Just you, saying what no one ever expected you to say."
Charles feels like he's just seen a resurrection of two dead corpses. Julia's already scribbling something onto a pad that's half-obscured by her laptop. She smiles. This time, not politely. With flare. Like she knows exactly what kind of shitstorm they're about to start. After a moment, she looks up to the distance and her smile falters.
"Will you back us up when corporate starts asking questions?"
Charles gives her a look like that question answers itself. Instead, he gives them his personal phone number with a clear confirmation that they can call him any time they feel fit. Or if they need help pushing ideas in.
"Ask for double the amount of budget that Max's campaign gets. Go big."
Liam is positively alive right now. "Okay. Fuck it. Let's make something Max wouldn't care to do."
"Max doesn't have to. I'm not doing this to answer him." He pushes back his chair, slow and deliberate. "I'm doing it because they'll be watching." And if they're going to stare, he might as well give them a show. Something they won't be able to look away from. "Do not to bother asking Max to comment." A pause, then the faintest smirk. "He won't say anything useful anyway."
They both try, and fail, to hide their smiles. It only proves his point more. For too long these two fought against the windmills alone.
"Schedule a meeting with Netflix soon. I want the same producer who did my Monaco episode on. Tell them that I'm not going to speak to them at all unless they give me my own episode this season."
"Copy."
Julia's scribbling slows. There's a shift in the room–not the electricity of an idea forming, but the quiet after it's taken shape. The kind of silence that dares someone to say the other thing. The one they've been tiptoeing around since the meeting began.
Liam clears his throat. Julia doesn't look up. She just exhales. Then glances once at Charles before speaking.
"There's one more angle. We don't have to go there," she says carefully. "But we'd be idiots not to at least ask. Please, don't...Don't get offended."
Charles tilts his head, watching her. "Ask."
She meets his gaze.
"Lestappen."
The word lands without a sound. No laughter, no surprise. Just that stillness again.
Nobody dares to elaborate. Charles feels his heart quicken. Of course he knows about the fan phenomenon. He's very aware. It's been humming in the background of his digital life for years, sometimes louder, sometimes not.
But no one from 'inside' has ever said it out loud to him. Not like this. In a kickoff meeting.
Maybe a stray joke once. A knowing smirk, passed like a private joke between departments. But never formally. Never like it might be used.
His stomach twists. He can't quite tell what's provoking it.
Is it nervousness? A reaction to someone acting like they know something he does not?
Is it shame? Have his actions spoken on their own?
Is it fear? Do they know Charles likes to dabble with guys here and there?
Is it disgust? He's used to being sexualized, but this is another whole new level.
Or is it some sort of weird guilty pleasure he gets by the idea of being on people's mind so much?
He keeps his gaze focused and calculates. Nothing ever happened between him and Max. None of Charles' potential scandals ever made it out. They can't have any real base for making this anything but addressing a PR angle. Which is their job. So, he will listen to what they have to say.
"I'm aware of some of the theories. Funny," he says, but nobody is laughing.
Julia shifts in her chair, as if this makes her more uncomfortable than it's making Charles. "We sort of leaned into it a bit last year on our social media. Nothing foretelling or anything that could be taken as directly addressing it." Charles recalls some of the posts and lets this understatement pass by.
"The fans fill the gaps. Some of them at least. Keeps engagement high," Liam jumps in, unlike Julia, being very calm about it. Like they're talking about Charles' favorite color and not whether he fucks his rival.
"Hm."
Julia seems to be done talking and Liam fully takes the lead.
"It's just an option," he remarks, immune to the tension in the room.
The idea of his current bosses dissecting this makes Charles somewhat sick. "How much of this has Red Bull already discussed?" Charles asks, eyes on Julia.
Liam takes a deep breath. "Internally? It's come up. In content planning, brand alignments, audience research. Never directly. For obvious reasons."
They're scared.
"Max won't play," Charles says simply.
"We know," Julia finally nods. "That's why it has to come from you."
Charles looks away for a second, not because he's embarrassed. But because he's measuring the idea. Weighting it in his hand like a weapon. He gulps. Is it too much? Nothing was ever too much for Max in the past.
"If we do it," he says slowly, "it never comes from me. Not directly."
Julia frowns, not quite following. "But–"
"It comes from me," Charles clarifies, eyes back on hers. "But it can't look like it does."
The truth is, Charles knows exactly how to set the fire without holding the match. The performance is in the silence, in the glances, in letting the world build the thing they want to see and giving them just enough to believe it.
Liam nods at that, like something just clicked. "Of course. It's a suggestion, not a statement. We give them aesthetic, not answers. In a way, ironically, you don't have to change anything about your behavior. Whatever you were doing up until now is obviously enough."
Charles almost–almost–smirks. There is a part of him that admires Liam's bluntness. It reminds him of some of Max's rhetorics.
"Max won't like it."
He doesn't say it to pause them. Doesn't even say it as a warning. Just states it the way you might announce rain on a race day.
Julia's expression slips up before she's able to stop herself. There is tiny, mischief-laced smile, suggesting she's been waiting a long time to say whatever she has to say. "He does not need to know. We'll be careful. Only those who are already looking for it will find it."
Mutual stare down begins. Charles' brain runs in overdrive. Whatever they might be insinuating is childish, cheap and below Charles. Yet, here he is. Not declining it. He imagines Max rolling his eyes in an interview, clipped and annoyed and just a little bit off his rhythm.
God, it's tempting. A part of him wants to pull the thread–see what unravels. Shake up the unspoken narrative so hard, just to find the line.
If Max finds out, well...By that time it they might be in so deep the HR departments might finally be useful. Charles makes a mental note to make some friends there soon too.
Charles sits up, rolls his tongue in and gives them a small nod with a smile. "Keep this of your notes. Is there a way of doing this with only the three of us knowing?"
Julia seems to be on the same wavelength. "Of course. As with most of the content, unless it's a brand deal, you can request anything to get taken down, no questions asked. And with you, as you seem to be willing to actually work with us, we will even do it in a timely manner, as a number one priority," she remarks, clearly letting the long-lived hostility between her and Max's team linger.
Charles feels strangely alive. Takes it as a win that he walks out of the building knowing he conquered something.
It keeps him going throughout all of Christmas break. He's not spending it home. Monaco is too much at the moment.
The coffee still tastes the same. That stupid machine in the corridor near the simulator bay – he'd hated it since 2016. A tangy aftertaste, like old plastic and obligation. He takes a sip anyway. Something about familiarity. Or punishment. Max doesn't even like coffee.
He nodded at the receptionist on his way through, didn't stop. Same security guy as last time. But different badge lanyards. The little things you notice when you haven't been somewhere in a while. When you expect it to stand still. Crisp January air giving it all just the perfect ending touch.
Thomas, now former Vehicle Performance Supervisor, had called yesterday. McLaren were sneaky enough to pull him over for this season. He had been the first person to actually listen to Max back in his first season in Red Bull.
The word sentiment does not exist in Max's dictionary. Not in any language he speaks. He finds people who worship the past mildly repulsive. It's easy to have those opinions when you're young. When you are the new thing. When the past doesn't mean anything yet. He first noticed the shift when he used the phrase 'back in the day'. Or maybe it was the third or fourth time he caught himself saying it out loud and didn't flinch.
Back in the day, Max pulled off somewhat of a miracle. Entered a limping team and poured in everything his young soul had. Not just racing–his actual job–but sleepless nights learning the inner workings of every department. Studying team management. Understanding structure. Figuring out who mattered. Who had fire in their gut strong enough to match his, even if only halfway. He doesn't feel guilty that his quiet, careful schemes cost some people their jobs. That's just how things worked.
It was individuals like Thomas who helped him shift the old guard. Who dared to stir things up. Who made it possible for Max to get what he needed: a car worthy of his time. When you live and breath racing, you can't get stuck in a dust bin.
Thomas had an assistant once. Max hated them. Thomas did too. A clean, polished nepo-placement from upstairs management. Utterly useless. Not even stupid or chaotic. Just plain lazy and disinterested.
But the assistant said one thing Max has never forgotten: "Team members should rotate every few years. Nothing good comes out of feeling safe."
At the time, Max wanted to punch them. He was convinced success could only grow from consistency. He and Thomas laughed about it later, one of their late-night gossip sessions between sim runs and strategy meetings. They'd laughed a lot, back then.
Both of those people are with other teams now.
Max is still here. As if his only job is to haunt "the good old days". Allergic to nostalgia, yet drinking it up like it's his lifeline.
Someone from aero–young, eager, painfully unaware, tries to make small talk as they walk back down the corridor.
"So… you hear Leclerc's already had three meetings today? Back-to-back. Apparently, he's got his own prep team now. Ferrari-style. Whole setup in the other wing."
Max doesn't respond. He just keeps walking.
"Guess it's good, right?" the guy continues, a little to excited. "Shows he's serious. Not just here for the ride."
Not just here for the ride. That part catches. Sticks somewhere unpleasant. Max stops at a water cooler he doesn't need. Pretends to drink. Waves at the young chap, agreeing to catching up later. It's not the first lie he said today. The paper cup is flimsy and cold in his hand.
He likes Charles. Always has. There's something about him. Pure, elegant, occasionally irritating, but never not a challenge when it comes to racing. They've known each other since they were boys. They've hurt each other, beat each other, grown around each other like twisted trees.
He considers walking over. Just to say hi. Something easy. Stupid. "Hey. How was your Christmas?" or "Welcome to hell."
Whatever. He doesn't move.
He pictures Charles in one of the bright glass rooms, surrounded by people and tight schedules, nodding like a royalty among engineers. He'll be charming. Grateful. Politely ambitious. It's never about the first month, anyway. It's about who's still standing in the sixth.
Max crumples the cup and drops it in the bin. "Nah," he says finally, to no one in particular. Keeps walking.
He's not sure if it's pride or instinct, but something in him refuses to make the first move. Not today. Maybe not ever.
Let Charles come find him. If he wants. All the other new teammates were always desperate to work with him from day one, no matter how hard some of them tried to hide it.
His new teammate does not seek him out. Several uneventful hours later, Max is back in his Red Bull apartment.
It's not a home. It's a holding cell with good wi-fi. Sleek furniture, no personality. Everything chosen by someone else. Max positively hates England the same way it hates him back.
This place provides him with little to no comfort, but taking the jet on a round trip home when he has to be at the factory tomorrow again seems excessive even to Max. He has to be back for simulator work and 'alignment meetings', which probably just means another polite argument about setup philosophies with people he no longer recognizes.
The fridge hums like it's the only one alive in the room. He opens it, stares inside. Rows of protein drinks, some expired yogurt, a sad-looking packet of pre-cooked rice. Nutrition without any other purpose.
He closes it again. Stands in the dark kitchen for a few seconds too long.
He pulls off his hoodie and throws it over the back of a chair, misses slightly, doesn't bother fixing it. Sits on the couch with his elbows on his knees, phone in hand, staring at the screen like it might blink first.
Few missed calls. No new messages. A group chat ping from someone trying to schedule sim slots. He doesn't answer.
He scrolls aimlessly for a few minutes. Looks up Charles on Instagram. Not to stalk, just to check. Ferrari-era content still clinging on like dead skin. A few new reposts from the Red Bull account. Nothing personal.
Max lets his head fall back against the couch.
He's not angry. He's not even sad. Just...Meh.
Time flows by and he genuinely won't be able to tell anyone what he did in the past few hours. It's too late for a workout, so he goes and tries the one thing that might just help him get out of this fog.
Incognito mode – hand down his pants.
Girls on girls look staged, guys on guys too obscenely graphic, threesomes just makes his brain crack about the logistics. He scrolls and scrolls, while his hand tries its best to prep him. But it just feels like getting stuck on one of the countless streaming platforms. Too much content, yet somehow not enough. He slaps the notebook shut and tries to put his own imagination to work.
Steamy work out session gone wrong. Max pounding into a faceless athlete. Bent over at the nearest work out equipment. Nothing.
Max fucking his ex on the top of RB 19. The loud moans and the feel of the car under his palms. A body bouncing up and down–the first imagery that sends some blood to his cock. His right hands ups the speed. Max's breath gets heavier. The image sharpens for a second. Skin against carbon fiber, fingers gripping the edge of the halo, a loud, willing moan. For a flicker of a moment, it almost works.
But then the image slips. His grip falters. The rhythm breaks.
He exhales, frustrated, and shifts his hips, tries again. Spits in his palm and almost prays.
Still nothing.
The fantasy starts to lose color. The body on top of the car turns shapeless. No face, no voice, just the outline of a vision that doesn't bother showing up tonight. The same way nobody else did.
He squeezes harder. Changes angle. Nothing. His own dick is mocking him. Is this the best you can do? A world champion can't get it up? There are thousands of fans that would give up their livelihood for one evening of getting worshipped by Max. But with the way he's been doing lately, it would only lead to mass disappointment.
He leans back on the couch with his hand still awkwardly inside his shorts, chest rising with a breath that sounds more like a tired, bored sigh than anything else.
Not even this.
Not even this.
Not even fucking this.
He pulls his hand out, wipes it off on the edge of a pillow he'll flip over later and forget about. His cock softens like it's never been interested in the first place. It's the worst kind of failure. Quiet, pathetic, private. No one to blame. No one to disappoint. Just the dull recognition that even his body doesn't believe him anymore. He exhales, not angry. Just tired. Just done. Gone are the days where he'd find pleasure easily. The times where people circulated his bed more often that the cleaners swept his floor.
He's happy his younger self will never find out about the pathetic version he grew old into.
The first time Max sees Charles, as his new teammate, comes by fairly quickly. Beginning of January, new racing suit and merch photoshoot. Something not even Max's manager is able to get him out of. Max's enthusiasm for team photoshoots ranks somewhere between dental surgery and waiting at the airport. So when he shows up at the make up room twenty minutes late, he simply watches his will to live melt under fluorescent lighting in the mirror. Every job has its pains and for Max, it's this.
But – Charles is here. And that makes it exciting. Max is nervous about that, just a tiny bit. Long gone are the days when Charles wouldn't even look at him, soaking up their on track battles and letting them leak out in real life. They talk more than they used to. About the latest race, difference in updates and on a particularly good day, even the latest gossip.
Max's wish is to make the best out of the situation. Have a bit of fun, maybe even gain a real friend. He even sent him a congratulation text after his signing. Hell, Charles is his last hope on having a teammate who Max can actually obtain something from, he thinks, in the most innocent way possible. He's smart, sharp and surely there must be something Ferrari had done with their car that might help Red Bull too. New regulations. Clean slate. Nothing but exciting times. Max wishes he shared the sentiment.
Charles is already done with make up and is lost in a deep talk with the team, the PR people and the photographer glued to every word he says. Max observes and wonders where he gets the energy to be so easy to work with. There is a part of him that admires this, just a bit.
Charles' face literally lights up when he spots him. He immediately interrupts the conversation he seemed dead locked in and jogs up towards him. Only as he steps out to the light does Max notice he's already wearing the new Red Bull racing suit. And it messes up with Max's brain like nothing else before.
Charles in deep blue. Max's color.
Max doesn't know why it hits him so hard. Perhaps because in his mind, Charles was always drenched in scarlet color. Max's eyes trail over the suit. How it hugs Charles' frame as he steps closer, the navy broken by streaks of red and yellow like veins of lightning in a night sky. It's unsettling. Like watching someone walk into your house and rearrange your furniture with better taste than you ever had. For a moment, he thinks this is just a weird dream where Charles steals his clothes and comes back to make fun of him.
Yet, he seems to be the only one borderline disturbed by the sight. Charles wears the colors like they'd been 'destined' for him and Max wonders if there is a color visible to the human eye that does not flatter Charles. As he gets closer and closer, Charles' smile grows bigger. Max tries to be a normal person and reciprocate, but his mind is still rushing back to the bizarre sights in front of him.
"Max!" Charles exclaims and goes for a hug so strong Max nearly looses his balance. Time slows down. Charles' arms lock around him with the kind of force that says we're teammates now, and Max's own arms follow, automatically, traitorously, because that's what a body does when it's crushed in like this. Okay. That's probably a warmer welcome than he expected. But, it's actually kind of nice.
He squeezes him back. "Charles." He's immediately hit with the signature perfume Charles started using around late 2023. Max noticed it then – of course he did – but never said anything. Just filed it away under 'unreasonably specific details I shouldn't care about.' It was around that time when he added the word 'sandalwood' into his vocabulary.
They lean away from each other after few seconds, but Charles does not look like someone who is done with the greeting.
"Nice to see you," he smiles at Max and taps his shoulder, as if a hug wasn't enough.
"No, yeah. It's...Um, yeah, you too," Max struggles to get a reply out at first, so he follows his mingle of words up with a smile, hoping it will prevent any awkwardness from spreading further. He desperately wants to play this by the book.
"Right," Charles smirks nonchalantly, definitely not sharing Max's nervousness.
"It's strange to see you in these colors, I'll have to get use to it," Max tries to break in with some light banter. "It's like looking into a mirror."
Except it's not, because there usually isn't Charles' head staring back at him in any mirror he looks into. Max knows this and he's sure Charles knows it and right about now he starts hoping someone comes and interrupts them.
Charles, however, seems unbothered. He looks down on his chest and arms and chuckles. "Mate, you're not the only one who's finding it weird," he start of lightly, but at the end of his sentence, something else creeps out in his expression. For a small moment, the air feels heavy. "New year, new me," he adds sarcastically.
"Ferrari will soon regret letting you slip through their fingers," Max says, forgetting to add any real meaning into his statement.
Charles nods and his lips curl up. Like he's not even happy to hear him say it. He quickly snaps back. "Well, the good thing is, I'll get to race you now. Been waiting for that for years. I can only hope for more of those to come."
There is a second where Max almost tells him that this might be the only season they share together. This isn't his team anymore. Not really. He's already halfway out the door. It's just no one knows it yet. If Aston truly looks as good as his sources say, he's out on a performance clause carefully hidden in his contract. And if all goes to plan, Charles will end up playing a big part in Max's exit. But, he decides not to reveal this. After all, Charles is barely his friend and most definitely a rival. Teammate or not.
"We can only hope."
Finally, someone indeed comes and interrupts them. They have a job to do after all.
Even a blind person would notice just how different the energy is in the room compared to last few season's first photoshoots. Charles is working the room expertly, effortlessly. People are laughing, joking around, no idea is a bad idea, and that's probably why Max finds himself standing glued next to Charles, arms on each other's waist, working their angles for the camera together. Poses matching poses without instruction, the kind of thing that usually takes three PR managers and a small miracle to orchestrate. It's not a situation where a photographer has to move two stiff figures around, trying to find the perfect lighting composition or whatever fancy words they like throw around when they position them like objects rather than people. No, this time apparently no one is worried about blurred photos or people smiling too much. In fact, it looks like this is exactly what they're chasing.
Max would even dare to say he's having fun. After hours of intense interrogation, of course. He won't be caught dead admitting this for free.
Then Charles flips the script and changes the course of Max's morning.
Mid-shot, mid-laugh, he shifts his stance, body opening slightly toward Max. Lifts his chin like they're two seconds away from whispering something secret. But no words come out. Just a breath–too warm and far too close, hitting the side of Max's neck like it has business being there. Shiver slices through him.
Now Max feels the few centimeters of their height difference.
Suddenly, his neck is the most sensitive part of his body. Every pore hyper-aware of the body close to him. A little too close. The foreign fingers move slightly on Max's waist, more daring and demanding. Holding him a little firmer now.
Charles laughs and trails off, and he tilts his head. Towards Max, not the camera. That stupid, perfect jawline catching light like it belongs in a museum.
He doesn't say anything. Max barely notices the camera clicking away.
He's not sure where they expect him to look. Charles' fingers shift subtly against Max's waist again, steadying them both like they're in it for something, not just posing for it. Max finds himself reacting to the cue, unable to stop leaning the way Charles is silently instructing him. It's a small tilt, barely visible, but both of them must be painfully aware.
The camera flashes again.
Max makes a joke. Because otherwise he might not find a reason to start breathing again. "Careful," he mutters, voice low. "Keep looking at me like that and people might think you like me."
Charles laughs, louder now, shoulders shaking. Batts his annoyingly long eyelashes and plays along, like it really is just a joke. He tilts his head until it bumps gently against Max's, all play, all theatre. The room eats it up.
Max stays still.
On the outside, he appears chill, sharp, untouchable.
On the same page of this joke as everyone else.
On the inside?
His brain is trying to crawl out the back of his skull.
Because what the fuck was that?
Nothing, probably. Charles being Charles. Comfortable in his skin. A natural PR machine. The same man who can flirt with a camera lens and charm three marketing execs into changing a campaign pitch without breaking eye contact.
Finally, Charles steps away and takes his helmet from one of the assistants, ready for to set up a new pose and follow the photographers new set of directions.
Max blindly mirrors his moves. Keeps his mouth shut in a thin line. No one would know he's sweating under the suit. No one would guess his pulse is up, not from nerves – God forbid – but from something much worse.
He's expecting that someone is going to hand him his helmet too, but this assumption is only met with head-shakes.
"We'll do one set with you, Charles and his helmet only," Julia steps in for the first time this day. Bit strange, Max figures, but he's still too busy with processing the last few minutes in to be fully present.
"Just him? Why not my helmet?" Max is particularly proud of this year's design.
Julia nods, already gesturing to the photographer. "It's a focus concept. You're anchoring the composition."
Whatever the fuck that means.
Max just goes along with it. He lets the stylist tweak the collar of his suit while Charles takes his mark again, this time standing face to face to Max. He mimics his pose, assuming that symmetry is the desired approach. Makes sense. Or should.
Then Charles lifts the helmet away from him–angled behind his own hip–and for a second Max honestly thinks he's about to get clocked in the face.
Fine, he thinks, irrationally. They win. I'll read the fucking briefs this year.
A black eye before pre-season testing is not exactly on his wish list.
Nevertheless, Charles just keep his stare dead set on Max, direct, unflinching. The helmet stays in his hand. The corner of his mouth that's angled toward the camera tugs upward into a flash of something practiced. Maybe even smug. Max keeps flashing between Charles' face and the helmet, still not entirely sure he's not going to throw it right at him. He shifts the helmet slightly. Poised. Suspended. Almost theatrical. Max's brows furrow.
"Higher," Julia says, stepping forward. "Hold the helmet a little higher, Charles, yes. Like, uh..." She trails off, as if catching herself.
"Yes. I know." Charles cuts in, quiet but firm. He lifts it to chest height, then a bit higher. Just below his own chin. Max watches, lost.
"Is this height and angle correct?" Charles asks, not looking at him. His voice deliberately vague, but purposeful. Julia leans over to the stand-by monitor and then locks eyes with Charles. There is a silent nod and a glint Max has never seen on her face. Not the typical stress, frustration or badly hidden boredom. Pride. Max is getting more and more baffled. By the lack of enthusiasm for her job, he figured she is just a woman in the wrong field, someone who regrets ever applying for this position.
You'd never get that impression from the face she's pulling now. "Perfect."
Charles turns back to him, visibly pleased. Takes a slow, poised breath in, and the camera clicks in time with it. The shutter's practically gasping. Then, without a word, Charles lifts his free hand. Deliberately. He raises it slowly, like he's giving the moment time to watch itself unfold. One finger reaches out. Not the whole hand. Not a commanding grip. Just that single point of contact. And he places it under Max's chin. A gentle pressure. Barely there. Enough to tilt it up – fractional, practiced, like he's done this pose before but never on Max.
Max goes still.
He feels the touch not just on his skin, but in his spine. His breath hitches and he wishes his body would fight back. But it doesn't. And Charles must feel it. Because something flickers in his face. Not mockery. Not performance. Just the tiniest admission: I know.
It's like he's guiding him. As if he's instructing him to tilt more. And a little bit more again. He's pouring his infinitely green eyes in Max's. The confidence is almost intoxicating. Max gulps and he's sure Charles can feel it. Charles tilts his own head a fraction, copying him, as if they're being drawn together by invisible thread. He bites the inside of his lip, soft, casual, but Max sees the precision. It's too smooth to be accidental. Too natural to be just for the camera.
The camera clicks again. And again.
Max doesn't breathe.
Few more clicks while he desperately waits for any instructions on what he's suppose to do and just like that it's over.
Charles pulls back like nothing happened. Max stays where he is, pulse loud in his ears, trying to figure out what just shifted. That wasn't in the brief. No one warned him.
Someone should've.
Before Max can catch up on forgotten breaths, the team is calling it wraps, Charles steps back, already leaning over Julia's screen, nodding at something Max can't see. And just like that, he's out of reach again. Max stays where he is, airless, sidelined. Like a prop someone forgot to move off set.
Done for the day and it's not even noon.
He stays where he is, pulse still thick in his throat. The touch might be gone, but it hasn't let go.
He wonders if anyone else noticed.
If anyone else felt the shift.
Or if it was just him, left blinking under studio lights, wondering what the hell just happened.
As he watches the team move, the stylists approaching him and prop guys already packing the helmets, he figures it really must be just him.
Apparently, Charles and the team have a closed set shoot planned in the garages. One that does not include Max. He should be grateful.
For some reason, he's not.
"See you soon, Max," Charles winks at his as he dances off away with the rest of the PR team.
To say this photoshoot has been confusing would be an understatement.
To say Max doesn't spend the rest of his day replaying flashes of specific moments would be a lie.
Chapter 3: A Bit of a Whore
Summary:
Oh, would you look at that. Charles was right. Max's signature move is pushing people against the door. Cute.
Notes:
wanted to release this tomorrow, but i. just. can't. wait.
ah...hope this hits the right spot
Chapter Text
Monaco. The world capital of glitz and glam, untouchable to most.
Monte Carlo. Charles' tiny hometown, where everyone knows everyone and secrets last for about five seconds.
Ironically, one well-kept secret is Charles himself. There's one conveniently placed almost-parking spot in the surrounding mountains, where, if the weather's clear and the fog stays off the bay, you can see straight into his apartment window.
He's been circling the area for nearly an hour. Sometimes drifting over into France.
First Friday back. First week at Red Bull done. It's been overwhelming – new routines, glueing names to faces, team politics to decode – that every evening he came home, he inhaled the pre-prepped meal and collapsed on the uncomfortable mattress. It's all just painfully new, like landing on a different planet.
And that's what he wanted, right? Clean slate, brutal cut and a fresh start. However, with the winter air rolling in off the sea, it doesn't feel like chasing something new. It feels like running away. No place on Earth makes you face yourself quite like the city that raised you. He's tainted with something bitter. Coming back feels like shaking hands with a husband after sleeping with his wife.
There are two reasons why people cheat. Either when they don't love the other one enough, or when they love them a little too much. Charles loved Ferrari so much it carved him up inside out. He let them take him wholly, to creep up into every inch of his body. Until the only way to survive was to throw himself into the arms of another. To a team who wouldn't dare to strip him down to the core the way Ferrari would always ended up doing. Charles loves Ferrari a little too much. Still. Will probably always do.
He's done worse things, on paper. Cold, calculated things. But this switch? The betrayal of...everyone really? It's pure. He's had to fake guilt in the past. That's not the case today.
He chuckles bitterly, as he stares on his own apartment like a stalker of his past life. Can't recall a break up that felt worse than this. He's been married to the idea of Ferrari, their joined glory, for so long it made him feel like he's a totally different person now.
The tears come again – like he hadn't already spilled them dry a dozen times, before deciding he couldn't do it anymore.
There's one thing he's thankful for.
He overpacked before his first departure to Milton Keynes.
Technically, he's here for the weekend only. He does not have to go home. He can just not go. It's not like he can't buy whatever he might need in the mean time. Apart from peace of mind.
Charles hadn't fully thought this through. His apartment still looks like someone vomited Ferrari all over it. It's been a part of his decor for as long as he could remember. It wasn't until today, after a week inside the navy-blue haze of Red Bull, that he realized how deeply the red had stained everything.
So, he doesn't go home. He doesn't even drive a Ferrari anymore. The car roars under him until he stops at the valet of one of Monte Carlo's many luxury hotels. Somewhere that isn't haunted by red.
When Pierre calls to ask if he can crash at Charles' place for the weekend, Charles lies. Says the apartment's under renovation. Some secrets last five seconds. This lie? He's not ready to let it go just yet. He makes it sound offhand, casual, like it's no big deal. Pierre doesn't question it. He's too caught up in his own news to notice the pause.
He's engaged. And he's heading over from Milan, expecting a celebration. Charles has been promoted from a best friend to a best man. It's exciting enough for him to run away from dealing with this stale heartache.
The news of his engagement spreads like a wild-fire, before Charles even gets the chance to start acting up on his best man duties. It's a bit of a rush to put a celebration together, since Pierre didn't feel like giving him much of a warning ahead. So, when Charles finally catches a breath and looks around the VIP booked out section of Pierre' favorite local club, sees it packed with cheerful people, some of which he's even dares to call honest friends, when he sees his best friend smiling widely, looking like he just caught the moon with his bare hands, he figures all is going well. Despite the little time.
He texted or called just about anyone Pierre might know, but short notice and off season had the undesired effect of many important people being away from town. But, the man of the hour does not seem that much bothered by it, seeing as he's currently busy chugging a glass of champagne as if he was an Irish man in a Guinness pub.
Muted lights spin around, the music thumps low and decadent, like a heartbeat under velvet. And Charles, tucked in the corner with a half-finished Negroni, feels the rare kind of peace that comes from chaos unfolding just right.
Pierre's laughter rings out from the dance floor, a little off-beat, a little too loud, but warm – the kind of sound that fills a room without trying. He's crouched in the middle of a cluster of friends, shirt unbuttoned just enough to look expensive rather than sloppy, face flushed with alcohol and affection. Charles watches him with a quiet fondness, swirling the last melting ice cube in his glass.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, his smile freezes, and turns toward Charles with practiced drama. He's by his side in no time. The glass hovering near his mouth before he slowly lowers it and narrows his eyes like he's trying to recalibrate reality.
"Why the hell would you invite Max?" he asks in French, not even bothering to lower his voice.
Charles raises his eyebrows, chuckling it off.
It's been years since the Red Bull debacle. Pierre does not hate Max anymore. Charles figures he didn't even back then during the peak of his Reb Bull drama. He passes this off as a joke and finishes his drink.
"Charles, seriously", Pierre repeats, in more serious tone this time.
Cutting through the dim, strobing light of the club's entrance like a misplaced threat in paradise, Max Verstappen stands, in all his moody, underdressed, unbothered glory. White t-shirt, black jeans, bored smile. Not even a damn jacket. Just the signature disinterested expression that always manages to piss someone off within five seconds of arrival.
"What do you mean? You said everyone you could think of. Remember, he's my teammate now..." he defends lightly, with the kind of calm that means he has no idea where this is coming from.
The groom-to-be just stares at him and after what seems like a few seconds of overthinking, he eases his tensed up shoulders and shrugs it off.
"Nevermind. Kika does not know, so I guess it's fine."
Now, that's not something that is going to get left untouched. Obviously, Charles is a nosy and curious person. Quickly runs through everything he recalls on the topic of Pierre and Max. Surely, he won't be making a fuss out of the fact he has never once beaten Max in FIFA. Also, why would Kika care. Must be something else.
Of course he's going to ask. The day Charles does not ask for gossip is the day he dies.
"What does she not know?"
There is a temporary glint in Pierre's eyes, as he switches his attention away from Max. "Don't worry about it, calamar."
Hah. As if. How dare his best friend keep any secrets from him. Charles raises his eyebrows, making it clear this conversation is far from over.
"Drop it, Charles," Pierre dismisses and turns away with the intention of joining the conversation happening on the other side of the booth.
Charles is borderline offended. Without a word, he taps Pierre's shoulder so annoyingly, it's impossible to ignore.
"What, Charles?" Pierre huffs, barely glancing back.
"Should I go and ask Max instead?" Charles says, honey sweet and annoying on purpose.
It earns him a groan. "It does not matter, drop it."
"Pierre."
"Fine, fine. It's just...Did you really text Max? Or did he come on his own?" his voice drops slightly, softer now, almost cautious. Like he's trying to ask without really asking.
Charles narrows his eyes, suddenly suspicious. "If I tell you will you explain why you're making such a big deal out of it?"
"...Yes." The most reluctant response one can get. But, Charles is dying with curiosity, so he'll let it slide.
"Fine. Of course I texted him. I even called him, because he said no."
Pierre turns his whole body toward him this time. Not dramatic, not smirking – just slightly horrified. "Charles. My God."
"What?" The blood starts to rush to his ears, because Pierre is being a little too dramatic right now. He vividly recalls Max's presence at Pierre's latest birthday celebration, so what the fuck is he on about?
"You don't invite someone's ex to their engagement party."
The music doesn't stop. The lights don't flicker. No one else seems to notice the way the floor just dropped out from under Charles' feet.
No one's alarmed, even though Charles' world view just shifted.
Second coming of Christ and nobody bats an eye.
"WHAT?"
Once Charles calms down a bit, gets through all seven stages of grief, swallows up his pride, he let's Pierre tell him the story of how him and Max hooked up two or three times before his infamous push to Red Bull. He fights his urge to throw a tantrum, because how has this never come up is beyond his understanding. Pierre argues that it was in fact so underwhelming experience for both of the drivers, that it never developed past few attempts before it all fizzled out. The amount of questions arising in Charles' mind is sending him into oversteer.
"Why didn't you tell me?" - "There was so much happening in your life at that time, it didn't feel important."
"Who initiated it?" - "He did."
"Did you like him? - "I was horny and alone, Charles."
"Was it good?" - "Not really, honestly. He was a little too intense."
There are so many more questions burning his tongue. But suddenly, he's got trouble pushing words out of his mouth and Pierre is being pulled in hundred different directions. Makes sense, given he's the man of the hour. Charles gets the permission, or maybe punishment, to sit alone with his spiral.
He groans into his hands, then peers back toward Max – who, right on cue, turns and locks eyes with him across the room. No expression. Just that calm, unreadable look he always wears like a second skin.
If this is going to be one of those nights, Charles might as well order another Negroni.
He sits in silence for the next thirty minutes, deeply buried in the white leather booth and equally deeply in his thoughts. It's like finding out it snowed in the Sahara once, and no one bothered to tell him. Looks like some secrets are safe even around Monaco.
Even around Charles.
Pierre and Max?
Of course it made sense in some strange, behind-closed-doors way. Two young men thrown into the same pressure cooker, egos running wild and bodies bored, adrenaline and loneliness mixing into something that looked enough like desire to pass. But still. It was like discovering your childhood dog had a secret gambling addiction. He simply didn't have a category for it. His brain, previously so sure of the anatomy of his friendships, had nowhere to file this one.
Two long sips deep, and he can't help but start to imagine it. Who touched who first. How Max's grip must've felt on Pierre's hips. He tries to put a clearer image on what 'too intense' could mean. Max throwing Pierre against the door of a generic hotel room, gripping and pushing with the harsh, cold stare young Max used to have. The smug, punch-worthy grin of someone who was made to grow up a little too fast, built up aggression landing on Pierre's lips, neck, chest and Charles has to stop this mental image right now because it's making his head spin.
Every muscle in Charles' body is ready for a fight and if he were to sit in a race car right now, he's sure he'd break several world records on any given track. He's happy he left his smart watch at the hotel and does not have any real record of his heartbeat. His eyes keep tracking Max's moves around the room, takes in every carefree smile Max gives out to his friends, no matter how much Charles tries to stop himself from noticing. The alcohol is not helping his current situation, but it's the only coping mechanism on hand.
Too intense? He feels a laugh bubbling up – slightly hysterical, definitely inappropriate. Charles can handle intense. Tame it, bathe in it, fold it up neatly.
Max is giving that faux dominant vibe. Like he's the one to rush to get the job done, taking the lead, because that's what he's used to all the time. Until someone goes for it and stops him. For just a tiny moment, Charles allows himself to believe he could. They've been chasing each other on track for years. Surely Charles knows enough about how Max moves in order to break him apart.
It must have been a fling that both of Pierre and Max looked back as a mistake. Detour in the wrong direction. Fireworks fizzling out to gray fog. Charles has had many nights like those. He wonders more, drunk on curiosity and unrequited retroactive jealousy.
What would have happened if, on that godforsaken night, Max had run into him instead of Pierre? Which turn did miss Charles to not end up in that room? What made him dodge this alluring bullet?
He leans back and tries to slow his mind from running even wilder. This needs to stop, it's Pierre's engagement party and if Charles keeps sitting here like a hurt puppy, warning bells will ring in his best friend's head.
Then again, he does feels like he just got robbed of something. Max is his ultimate rival. Sure, Pierre has his own history with him, but the way Max and Charles circle around each other and have been for their whole lives is different. His cloudy mind can't come up with a different word than 'divine', so he just sticks with it. It's not like it's Pierre who's sitting in meetings where the PR team, actively discusses the tension between new teammates, because it's so strong that it apparently can't be ignored. It's Charles who gets instructed to lean into it. All while a different story had apparently already been written by his childhood friend.
There was a point in the past where Max fancied Pierre enough to make a move on him. Charles has to live in a timeline where this is fact that happened and for some reason it makes him sick to the bone. There is something incredibly wrong about this idea. Where was he to stop it?
Right. Enough.
Charles slides up to the bar beside Pierre, who's halfway through a gin and tonic and emitting the kind of drunk glow that only comes from being in love and moderately tipsy.
"You hiding here now?" Charles asks, leaning on the counter like he belongs there, like he hasn't been mentally spiraling in a booth for the past hour.
Pierre glances at him, amused. "Not hiding. Just giving my liver a moment to scream into the void before I punish it some more."
Charles lets out a low chuckle. "Romantic."
"Very. You okay?"
Charles pretends not to hear. Flags the bartender instead and orders another Negroni.
Pierre watches him with that quiet, annoying familiarity. "You've been acting weird since I told you about me and Max."
Charles makes a face. "Have I?"
"Yes," Pierre screams flatly over the progressively louder music. "You were chill for, like, ten minutes. Then it was full spiral."
"I'm not spiraling."
Pierre nods slowly, exaggeratedly. "Sure. You're just vibing in silence and shooting Max death stares every ten minutes."
Charles snorts and shakes his head. Pierre had to pick this evening to become a master of observation. Dickhead. "You're imagining things."
Pierre raises a hand in surrender. "Fine, fine. No judgment. Just… you're usually better at pretending to be cool."
Charles takes a long sip of his drink and lets the silence do the work for him.
Pierre shrugs, like he's ready to drop it, and turns slightly to face the crowd again. "Anyway, it was nothing serious. Just a few stupid nights. Max was kind of a whore back then."
Charles chokes slightly on his drink.
Pierre barely reacts. "You okay?"
"Incredible," Charles mutters, blinking hard. "Love hearing my teammate described like that."
Pierre grins. "You asked."
"I did not."
"Your eyes did," Pierre says, smug and unbothered, like someone who's known Charles long enough to decode him in two syllables or less.
Charles groans into his drink. "I hate you."
Pierre clinks his glass gently against Charles' with a smirk. "You love me."
Charles doesn't argue. He just finishes his drink a little too fast, gaze drifting back into the crowd – eyes searching again, even though he knows exactly what they're looking for. Pierre greets some people Charles does not know and he's alone once again.
That's it. This really got out of hand. He gets up and decides to mingle. Distract himself from diving in deeper. Nothing good comes out of him drowning in this.
Very quickly he ends up locked in a supremely dull conversation with some random Pierre's friend. Turns out latest Monaco gossip is not nearly as juicy as whatever he just learned.
He passes the time with occasional glances towards his new teammate, who seems to be having way more fun than him. Kind of ironic, if Max is the ex and Charles is the best man. Should be the opposite, right?
In the middle of yet another speech he's not listening to, he observes Max making his way towards Pierre. He has to fight the urge to insert himself into whatever conversation that's about to happen. But, he's too far away to make it seamless and he's not desperate enough just yet to do something that would raise Pierre's suspicions more.
Charles watches them with that particular kind of drunk clarity where everything is a little too sharp and a little too cruel and personal. The hand on the shoulder. The closeness. The shared history he just learned about. Max probably just came over to congratulate Pierre. Many have tonight and many more will. But Pierre could ease up on the laughter. And it's stupid. It's not like he wants Max. But also – why the fuck does Max still get to be the most important person in every room?
A bit of a whore.
Charles figures there are some people who call him the same bitter name behind his back. In fact, he's probably way less careful with his affairs than Max ever was. At least that what he thought until today. Maybe he was just blind.
He could have almost anyone in the club. Despite his somewhat awkward dance moves, he knows how to tone it down to make him look nonchalant.
Charles has mastered the art of flirting with sunglasses indoors. Lock their eyes in. Look away for a moment. Repeat one, two times, then follow up with a half-side smile. Keep the eyes on long enough this time that it's clear it's not an accident. Then nod the head down, pretend like the beat is hitting something real good in his chest. Sway to the rhythm. And finally, look up again, tilt the head a bit, push the glasses just low enough so that they can see Charles' eyes and then it's all about letting the eyes speak freely.
And revert back as if nothing happened. Laugh at a joke they can't hear.
Works every time. Max is by his side before the DJ manages to switch up the track.
Charles can see him in the corner of the eye. He doesn't say anything at first – just appears there, close enough that Charles feels the shift in the air before he registers the presence. It's the kind of closeness that doesn't demand attention but makes it impossible to think about anything else. And before Charles can talk himself out of it, or even into it, he nods.
Max steps in further. Not close enough to touch, just within orbit. Their shoulders aligned, their hips moving in the same lazy rhythm. Charles tells himself it's nothing. Just dancing. Monaco is full of men dancing near each other. No one's watching. No one cares.
But he cares. And that's becoming a problem. He convinces himself that it's all just part of the long game he's playing with Max. Get into the teammates head.
Max sways with easy control, like he's not even thinking about it. Like he does not care what anybody thinks of him. His confidence taking up every free space in the crowded dance floor. And Charles? He's good at pretending. So he mirrors him. A half-step closer. A shared smile that never reaches either of their mouths.
The lights cut across Max's face, soft and fast, and Charles doesn't know what to do with the way it makes his heart twitch. Max is attractive, all drivers are in some way. It's just something about the way Max keeps his hair longer these days. Combined with the red light, elegant stubble on his chin, it's perfectly acceptable that someone with taste so refined like Charles might find it just a bit nice to look at.
Max is the first one to break the silence. "You're drunk," he leans in, voice low near his ear, like a secret.
"I'm not," Charles lies.
Max gives him a look. Disbelieving. Soft around the edges.
They're still moving, barely dancing now, more like circling each other, when Max leans in again and says something, low and soft.
Charles catches a few syllables, maybe a word, but the bass drops at the worst moment and the sound drowns in the flood of synth and strobe. He's also focusing more on the visual input, rather than the auditory one.
He leans back, blinking. "What?"
Max tries again, a little louder this time, but still too quiet to cut through the noise.
Charles shakes his head, half-laughing, half-annoyed. "Still can't hear you." Anytime he sways in closer, to hear him better over the loud beat, Charles perks up.
Max gestures toward the edge of the room. "You wanna go somewhere quieter?"
Now that he hears. His first reaction is trying to ignore the lighting of excitement this sends through his back. And that's when Charles makes a choice. A bold, stupid, deeply Charles choice.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, then grins – just enough to confuse. Charles is losing his sense of direction. Not physically, though his current state is not what one would probably describe as sharp. The way the club lights keep flashing in Max's eyes is distracting him. What even is Charles' game plan for tonight? Right now, he feels like he's back at Ferrari, fumbling between Plan F and Plan G, all while forgetting what they even were in the first place.
"Yeah," he says, grabbing Max's wrist like it's the most casual thing in the world. "Come on."
Max follows without hesitation, weaving through the bodies and heat and haze. He's probably expecting a hallway. A balcony. A quiet staff entrance. What he gets is the bathroom door swinging shut behind them with a dull thud.
Max raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
Charles leans back against the counter, arms folded across his chest. "It's quiet."
Max looks around at the echoing tiles, the hum of distant bass, the motionless stall doors. "It's a bathroom."
"Didn't ask for an opinion," Charles says, gaze fixed on him like this is a game of chicken he has to win.
Max leans back against the counter opposite him, arms loose at his sides, watching Charles with that maddening composure of his. The kind that makes Charles want to shake him or kiss him or maybe both.
"I was going to ask you something," Max says.
Charles raises an eyebrow, arms still crossed, heart beat dangerously high. "You brought me into a bathroom to ask me a question?"
"You dragged me into the bathroom," Max reminds him, lips quirking slightly.
Charles says nothing.
Max clears his throat, still watching him too closely. "I was going to ask what you think I should get Pierre as an engagement gift."
Charles stares. Blinks once. Then laughs, sharp and humorless.
"Is that a thing now?"
"What, gifts?"
"Engagement gifts. Who even does that?"
Max shrugs. "I don't know. People who… care?"
"Oh, so now you care?" Charles fires back, the words out before he can stop them.
It's right then when one of the bathroom stalls opens and a guy, who's face Charles does not recognize, walks by then to the bathroom sinks. Max spends this unnatural interlude in their conversation drilling his eyes into Charles. The only way Charles can describe his look in his current state is curious. It's infuriating.
Finally, the awkward silence end with the departure of the random guy. Max's expression flickers. Not quite hurt. Just... surprised. "Of course I do."
Charles shifts his weight, suddenly too warm under the expensive light. "Get him a toaster. Or a blender. I don't know. Whatever says 'I once had you naked in a hotel room but now I support your future happiness.'"
Max flinches at that one. Just a little. Blinks few more times than it's probably necessary.
Charles regrets it immediately. But too late to back down now. He keeps his face stoic.
Max straightens a little, his jaw tight for half a second before it smooths out again. He takes a breath in, as if he wants to say something and then changes his mind. Then he opens his mouth again. "You've been weird with me ever since the team switch."
How dare he dance around the subject like that. Charles is getting impatient. "Oh, don't make it about that."
"It's literally about that," Max says, almost desperate now. "Like you're trying anything to distract you from letting it eat you up from inside."
Charles exhales through his nose, shaking his head. This too complex of a conversation for a drunken brawl in a club. He says some words, but isn't even sure what he means by them. "Change is exciting. You should try it. Look where we are. An engagement party."
Max still thinks this talk is a serious one, despite how theatrical Charles' last sentence sounded. "Yeah, you don't look like you really care about that."
"I do care about Pierre." But right now, he cares about the way how Max's shirt hugs his chest more. Sue him.
"I wasn't talking about Pierre."
That stops Charles cold. He glances up, meets Max's eyes – and this time, Max looks away.
"I don't care about you," Charles says, but it comes out too fast. Too forced. And Max hears it for what it is. The only good outcome of this rushed sentence is that the cold blue eyes are back on Charles again. Which is the priority anyway.
Charles narrow his stance, to level with Max, who in return takes a step forward.
Charles doesn't move.
"I've had a lot of teammates," Max says, voice low now. "They keep coming and going. Never last long enough."
Charles swallows, throat dry. The double entendres are not lost on him. Is this the intensity that Pierre hinted at? Pathetic. Amusing.
Did Max fuck all of his teammates?
"So what – this is a competition now?"
Max is close enough that Charles can feel his breath between them. "Isn't it always?"
Charles huffs a laugh, but it dies halfway out of his mouth. His spine's against the cold marble sink now, nowhere left to retreat, and Max is standing in front of him like he knows it. Not that Charles is planning on retreating any time soon.
"Say something," Max says quietly.
"I did," Charles replies, making sure his smirk is a particularly expressive one. Right now, he could probably count all the freckles scattered on Max's face.
Max leans in even closer – just a fraction. His hand comes up, almost brushing Charles' waist, like he's waiting for permission or denial. He doesn't get either.
"You always this difficult?"
"Only when it's fun," Charles murmurs.
"Charles, you're drunk," he says like it's a problem. While Charles may be tipsy, while that might be reason why they're standing up almost pressed against each other in a bathroom, he is present enough to stop himself if the situation requires. He doesn't. Because one thing's for sure. Charles is having fun.
He circles the glass he's been nursing like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Well, then. If you feel like you're behind, let me help you," he says, lifting his drink in front of Max's face. The other driver doesn't react. Doesn't pull back. But he doesn't give Charles anything either – not refusal, not permission.
So Charles takes it. Mimics the move he pulled on him during their first photoshoot.
Drink in one hand, Charles lifts the other and brings a single finger to Max's chin. He tips it up, just slightly. This time, his finger presses harder, getting buried deep in Max's skin. He makes sure to drag his nail into the crease of the neck. Max resists, pushes against it. Just enough to register. For a moment, Charles doubts he will play along. Still, he he leans in.
"Open up, baby."
And, fucking hell.
Against all odds, Max does just that. Without a blink of an eye. Lips parting like he was made to obey that exact sentence. Something flickers behind Charles' eyes. He sobers up fast – must be the blood rushing in every direction. Then, he slowly pours the entirety of his remaining Negroni into Max's mouth. His own disbelief mixing with newly found hunger.
The alcohol leaves the glass in a slow pour, absurdly slow, and Charles watches every drop hit Max's tongue like it's a countdown to something he won't be able to take back. They don't break eye contact. Not once.
By the time the last sip slides free, Max swallows hard, the motion deliberate, visible. Charles watches his neck bob. Max licks the residue Negroni of his lips.
Charles' mouth twitches, somewhere between amusement and challenge, as he dares to step even further. A bare whisper. He's so close Max must feel the air hitting his face. He's never not going over the limit.
"You take it so well."
The words slip out with enough sarcasm a person not speaking English would understand.
Before he can think again, the now empty glass is yanked out of his hands. Max moves quickly. He feels his body swing.
A loud thud.
Oh, would you look at that. Charles was right. Max's signature move is pushing people against the door. Cute.
Max turns him around and shoves him in the empty stall. Charles shifts, adjusting his posture and waits. Observes Max's next move. For him, right here, right now, this is a character study.
Max is apparently an intense whore. The idea makes Charles chuckle. The eyes he's staring into tell a slightly different story. Pierre wasn't enough to handle it. For once, Charles is personally grateful for that. He'll happily compete with all those who'd touched Max before him.
The stall is painfully small and Charles for once makes a mental promise to send personal letter of gratitude to the architect. Max is standing close now. Closer than he ever has. The lock on the stall clicks into place like a loaded gun, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Charles leans his head back slightly, lets it rest against the cold stall door. Perks up his chin like a challenge.
"So," he says, breath slightly uneven, "what are you waiting for?"
Max doesn't answer. He just watches him with that same maddening expression – somewhere between restraint and hunger. Then, very slowly, he sets the empty glass down on the toilet paper dispenser, like it's fragile. Like he's not about to manhandle Charles against a bathroom wall. As if the world paused just for this, Charles concludes that Max is probably one of the hottest guys he's ever seen. Slowly becoming obsessed with the way Max's heavenly blue eyes shine out even in the dim, unflattering light. It's like being shot through and through.
Impatient as ever, Charles arches his back on the stall and pushes his hips closer to Max. The first touch is surgical. Not shy, not gentle–just precise. A hand slipping under Charles' blazer, fingertips grazing the hem of his shirt like they're confirming what he already knows: that Charles is eager, and waiting.
Charles doesn't react. Well, tries his best not to do so. Not with sound, not with movement. He lets Max search for a reaction that isn't coming easy.
"Still drunk?" Max asks, low. It's not a question. It's an invitation to an excuse.
Charles lets the silence stretch. "Depends. Still too intense?"
Max's smile is barely there, but it's sharp. His hand trails upward, palm flattening against Charles' chest now, steady, as if testing how fast it's beating. As if mapping a track. Charles lets out a breath he didn't mean to hold, one that smells like lust and whatever tension has been building between them for too many years.
"You think this is a game?" Max asks, eyes flicking up.
"No," Charles says, voice catching slightly. "I know it is."
Max shakes his head, as if to make sure to keep his condescending aura on. And that's when Max presses in. Not a kiss–God, not yet. Just proximity. Mouth next to Charles' jaw, breath hot and measured, like he's testing which parts of Charles reacts first. Charles pushes his chest against Max's and something in his shoulders drops. Barely. Enough.
Max's hand reaches up, somewhere behind Charles' ear and rests on the door. Effectively locking him in. The other hand roams around his chest and takes residence in gripping Charles' waist. Max's lips brush over Charles' chin oh-so-accidentally. It's masterclass in patience, the fact that Charles does not already have Max pinned up on the adjacent wall.
Charles swallows. The tension isn't just electric – it's like molasses, thick in the air, gluing them in place. For a moment, Charles considers breaking it. He could make a joke. Ruin the atmosphere just to prove he can. Toy with his rival.
Instead, he turns his head. Only a fraction. Just enough to brush their noses. To let Max feel the intent that's been simmering under his skin since the first fucking Red Bull briefing. Just how he ended up in this scenario is a mystery to him.
Finally, Max dives in and crosses all the lines between friends and lovers. Leans in, and his kiss lands not with chaos but with terrifying precision. Hot and cold water poured over Charles and he instantly forgets all or any logical thought that ever plagued his mind. Time stops, in fact it might have never existed. It's not sweet. It's not even angry. It's clean, composed, almost professional – until it isn't. Eyes shut, Charles gives up the privilege of staying still and savoring every little brush Max's careful lips leave on his – and kisses back. The kind of kiss that tastes like a dare fulfilled. A promise long forgotten. His hands, idle until now, shoot up to Max's jaw, his neck, anchoring him in, pulling him closer, deeper, hungrier.
Teeth click. Breath tangles. Tongues dance. Someone groans and neither of them will admit to it.
This completely speeds up the dynamic, and as if to follow a script Charles wrote, Max doubles up on his intensity. Charles dwells in pride as his tongue gets sucked up. He lets the world shrink down to this stall, this heat, this reckless little secret that locks them in. He'll pay for it later. Of course he will. But right now? Right now, he just lets Max kiss the Ferrari out of his mouth.
He can feel it in his whole body. Bliss found him and refuses to leave him stranded, now that he knows the taste of Max. With merciless force, Max crowds him against the stall door, hand sliding down, gripping Charles' thigh, hiking it up just slightly. Shivers down the spine, butterflies throw a party in his stomach and the previously empty head somehow reaches the state of vacuum. Charles gasps into his mouth, swears under his breath in French – something clipped and blasphemous – and Max swallows it like candy.
Charles exhales so sharply it might as well be a whimper.
Max, obviously pleased by this sound, shifts his weight and lifts Charles' other leg, smooth and deliberate, until both thighs are locked around his hips. Charles feels the hard press of the door behind him, cold and sticky, the soft push of Max in front of him, solid and hungry.
He's being held up. Completely. By Max fucking Verstappen. Heaven has never felt so close.
The hips touching his now full press in and...oh my–Max is hard. Like a fucking rock. A small chuckle escapes Charles when he reaches for a quick breath. The harsh touch, the confirmation alone sends even more blood into his own dick. Especially when Max brushes them against each other. Somehow, he makes the fabric of Charles' jeans feels like it has been purposefully designed to torture him.
Charles tightens his thighs around him and bites down a sound he wouldn't want the PR team to hear.
"Fuck, Max–"
It slips out without elegance. Just breath and instinct and desire. And it makes Max smile – crooked, lazy, devastating. Charles can feel it, in the way the lips press into his neck. In fact, he can see it clear as day in his mind.
"That for me?" Max whispers, rolling his hips once more, grinding their erections together with filthy precision, gripping his thighs ruthlessly.
Charles bites his lip hard enough to bruise. Slides his hand up and down the back of Max's head and grips his hair. Max needs to understand that Charles is not some obedient dove that'll let him call the shots. "No, it's for the ambiance," he snaps in thick French accent, though it comes out more like a gasp than a comeback.
Max hums, amused and shameless, before dragging his mouth across Charles' jaw again. Down to the sharp line of his throat, where he bites, just a little.
Charles jerks. His heels dig into Max's back. "I swear, if you mark me–"
"You'll what?" Max murmurs against his skin. "Ask Julia for make up lessons?"
Charles laughs, breath hitching on the inhale. "Fuck you, Max."
"Working on it," Max replies, voice like a goddamn sinner, hips grinding again – slow, filthy, drawn-out. He trusts his hips so hard that if it weren't for the two layers of fabric dividing them, Charles is sure he'd be hitting his prostate.
The whole door shakes. Somewhere behind Max, the sounds of a glass falling down on the hard floor and bursting into million pieces, brings Charles back to Earth. If it hadn't, he'd probably miss the distant sound of a familiar voice in the next room. Charles is getting so sucked into the moment, he almost does not recognize Pierre's voice. Almost.
But he does. His dearest best friend decided to grace the bathroom with his presence. Charles can hear his tone even despite the fact a wall keeps them apart.
He stops all his movement for a second and Max notices immediately. Pulls away from where he just devoured the thin skin of Charles' neck and searches for an answer to the sudden change in mood in Charles' eyes.
"Shh," Charles whispers into Max's lips. Heavy breaths mix with each other and Charles can clearly see the moment when Max also recognizes Pierre's voice.
Charles' brain works quicker than his. He holds onto Max's shoulders with his life and slowly, painfully slowly drags his tongue over Max's swollen, kissed up lips. As if to say: don't stop just yet. A smirk creeps up to give the daring tongue some company.
FInally, Max grinds in again. Controlled. Measured. Fucking expert. Like he's mapping out every millimeter of Charles' reaction, writing it into muscle memory. The stillness disappears quickly.
Max is licking his neck like it's the only thing anchoring him to the world. Wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave no space for second-guessing. A scrape of teeth here. A soft, apologetic suck there. Then back to the spot that makes Charles twitch. Max finds it too easily. Of course he does.
Still, Pierre's temporary presence nearby permanently threw Charles away from his haze. He stares at the ceiling, as he lets Max work around his neck.
Listens attentively to the sound coming from the next room, until he is absolutely certain that Pierre is back in the club area.
The turn of events today is unexpected, but will come in handy. There is just one more step to make sure Charles can call this evening a success.
And he absolutely hates it. Takes every ounce of self-restraint he has, and then a bit more. He gently stops Max, lets his legs find the ground again, taking back the control of his fight against gravity out of Max's hands.
As much as he's love to allow Max to destroy him, Charles will gain the most if he leaves him like this. After all, he's on a mission. Sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. However, he's not strong to stop himself from locking their lips one more time and biting that sweet, juicy lip of Max's instead of saying a proper goodbye.
It's quick, but God would be jealous.
Then, he pushes Max away and knocks the wind out of him. The muffled beat of the song is the only thing connecting them to the outside world. He can practically read the questions off Max's eyes, those overwhelmingly blue eyes. The ones where many people must have drown in before.
And that's the point. The fruit is not ripe. Charles can't have it all...yet. Charles doesn't have to explain, the penny drops for Max. He shakes his head, as if to say 'don't you fucking dare leave now'. Which is exactly what Charles intends to do. For a moment, Mad Max is back. Oh, how much has Charles missed him.
"There," he chuckles and pushes Max deeper into the stall. "You can check another teammate off the list." Then, he turns around nonchalantly, unlocks the door with a quick flick, and slides out before Max can decide if he wants to pull him back in or follow.
And the worst part? Charles doesn't even look back.
There is no need to. He knows the image he's leaving behind. Max, still hard, still breathing heavy, lips a little redder than before, shirt wrinkled and peace of mind completely wrecked. It's like he can hear it like a loud shout.
The music hits him, like his back did the wall just mere minutes ago.
He waltzes back to the crowd. Smiles at someone he doesn't know. Steals a sip from a stranger's drink. Laughs too loudly at a joke he doesn't find funny. All while feeling Max's presence burn behind the bathroom door. He spots him again when he's sipping on a fresh cocktail at the bar. Max walks away the same way he walked in. Unapproachable and looking like everyone here is beneath him. Charles fights the urge to wave him goodbye.
He'll see him again in the garage. In the factory. In the sim room. He'll see him everywhere.
And Max will see him too.
But now – now the rules have changed.
Game on.
Chapter 4: I Am Definitely Not Your Prince
Summary:
Not that much happens. Silly campaign video drops, simulators are acting strange and Max enters the competition for "Over-thinker of the 21st Century".
Notes:
Charles is winning this round
We'll see how long that lastsas per usual - expect typos and unwanted grammar innovations
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It's a lot to take in for poor old Max in this goddamn bathroom stall. Air's thin. His skin's still hot. And the spot where Charles' face just was? He's staring at it like an idiot.
This evening has been bizarre even by his standards. First, he gets invited to an engagement party hosted by an old ex-hookup/ex-teammate – Pierre – while the future Mrs. Gasly is, quite conveniently, nowhere to be seen. Max turns the offer down, all in good taste, assuming the invitation is more out of obligation than actual desire to have him there. But then the groom-to-be's best friend calls. Guilt trips him. Persuades him to show up.
That same best friend then proceeds to laugh into his face before practically throwing himself on him.
Max is but a man. Who is he to say no someone like Charles Leclerc. Anyone with two working eyes would do the same, if they found themselves in Max's shoes, he is sure of it.
He tries to stick logic instead of lustful whims. It's never kissed him senseless and walked out grinning. Because if he doesn't, the bathroom might not survive it.
He's hard. Still.
It's been ages since someone's made him feel.....
Nope. Never mind. Logical. Thinking. Only. From now on.
Deep breath in. Attempt #6 at getting his heart rate down. He kicks the door open with too much unnecessary force. By the time he washes his hands and splashes water on his face, the heat does not vanish – just gets buried deeper now, forced back under skin and breath and a jaw held a little too tight. A desperate aim at taming the intrusive thoughts down fails.
He's not stupid. He knows when something's being used against him. Even though his dying wish is to get out of the tangle of analyzing what people hide behind their actions, he just can't help it. The fact he is incredibly fast in a car is not the only reason why he's survived in F1 for so long.
He hates this. Hates that his brain won't just let him chalk it up to hormones, alcohol, and whatever mutual insanity had taken over in that stall. But no. His brain is an asshole. It wants to know why. It needs to know what game Charles thinks he's playing. He bends his head backwards and rests his tired arms on the marble sink and after a minute in all clicks in.
Of course. It's so obvious it might be insulting to even dwell on it for any longer.
This has nothing to do with him. Charles is clearly stuck in some strange power play with Pierre. It explains every move of his erratic behavior. Maybe these two were more than friends at some point. Max is probably some kind of a revenge paw during a game he's not a player in. Jealousy. Ugh, Max can already feel the headache when this blows up in his face. He doesn't like messes unless he creates them. And Charles? He just dropped a fucking bomb and walked out smiling.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.
Logical thinking is apparently done for the day.
His hands still feel the weight of Charles' thighs. His mouth burns with the ghost of a kiss that had no business being that addictive. His skin is flushed, forehead damp, like something's been drawn out of him and left hanging in the air. Rosy cheeks stare back at him when he finally gets the courage to look into the mirror.
Pathetic. Max is finding new levels of pitiful with each passing day. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The taste still lingers. Files it under future headaches.
No point in staying at the party. He can sulk at home, which is probably what he should have done in the first place. It's just a drunken make out. Not the first, and with the way things are going, not the last one in Max's life. He's no longer a teenager to stitch meaning into empty gestures. Still, his heart keeps beating and he catches himself wishing Charles had stayed just few minutes longer.
The apartment is quiet when Max wakes up. The cats being mercifully collected, rolled up next to his legs, locked in lazy slumber. It's a dull Sunday day ahead. Yesterday passed in a fight between a hangover and self-hatred. In two days, he's suppose to be right back at the factory. Until then nothing is there to stop him from mindlessly flopping around. No need to force himself out of the bed too early. He rolls onto his side, arm flung across the bed, and grabs his phone from the nightstand. Opens it without thinking, thumbs flicking through notifications on muscle memory. At first, it's the usual. Group chats from the paddock boys, a few memes from Daniel, unread texts from PR. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, unlocks the screen, and opens his carefully F1-free curated private, secret, Instagram account. On a mission to find if the end of Instagram reels actually exists.
Haha. Life, the sadistic bitch it is, has different plans for his day. Lures him into false sense of security with two innocent reels about cats and then – and there it is.
Green eyes, sharp jaw, that exact look from the bathroom, now powered by a 4K lens and a corporate budget. But this time, it's an official announcement. His algorithm stands no chance. Top of the feed. Sponsored. Full screen.
Red Bull Racing.
Half a million views in two hours.
Max watches the advertised video. And then again, just to confirm his mind is not playing any tricks on him. Rewatches four times, just to be really sure. The he groans so loudly the cats turn over like he's about to die.
He hasn't had a single day of peace since pre-season started. Only Charles fucking Leclerc could turn a race suit promo into psychological warfare. Max swears someone should just helicopter him to an internet-less island and leave him there until FP1.
But no. Not until Charles Leclerc is alive, apparently.
The camera quickly pushes back from the darkness and continues to fly backwards, until it slowly reveals Charles. First, his shoulder, then a glimpse of the car he seems to be sitting on and finally, his face and eyes pierce through the lens of the camera. The shot stops moving, as if on Charles' silent demand. He is sitting on the RB22, which is covered enough so that the design and chassis isn't revealed, but visible enough for anyone to notice. The new Red Bull suit enough of a statement to let it linger.
Legs crossed casually, a can of Red Bull in his hand like it's a scepter. To his right: RB20. To his left: RB19.
They rise around him like throne guards. The angle makes it look like a podium, but he's not standing. He's seated above it all. He takes a sip. No music. Just that carbonated crack of the can opening. Just eerie silence and his captivating stare, right in the camera piercing through the viewer.
Then, softly, his voice breaks in, off-screen. Charles keeps his expression fixed:
"They said I was chosen. Born with it. Destined for it. ' Il predestinato.'"
He chuckles on screen. As if he's mocking the term. He straightens up ever so slightly and tilts his head.
"You know how that story goes."
The long shot is broken by a snap montage, distorted details of his face, cut with the RB22, details of his hands, race suit and it all flows naturally as a background anonymous techno music creeps in.
"The endless hope. The red suit. The tragic story. All of it looked glorious."
A slow pan of his hands brushing the RB22's surface. His name printed, already cemented for anyone who dared to doubt.
"I spent years trying to be what they wanted. Likable. Loyal. Forgiving. But I didn't come here to be remembered for what others need."
Charles stands now, stepping down from the RB22 slowly. Rapid, short details are cut with wide shots if him walking around the cars and glancing at the camera. The music starts speeding up.
"You think this is about rivalry? About revenge? Please."
The camera keeps low. He towers the long, slowly moving shot.
A sharp, cinematic cut of Charles walking through the Red Bull garage like it's a runway. Lighting cool and shadowed. His suit pristine. Engine sounds overlaid like drums. At the last second, he pauses. Raises the Red Bull can slightly. Not like a toast. Like a coronation.
"I'm not your prince. And I'm done pretending I want to be."
Camera cuts to a on-ground POV, making Charles look at that much majestic. He leans down and pours the drink directly on the lens–and then proceeds to lick his tongue over the spilled drink with elegance truly left for royalty only. Cut to black.
One last tone of the music keeps hitting on for few second more. I'm not your prince graphic fades in.
Max throws the phone away somewhere over his pillow, just so that he doesn't have to watch this again. Whatever this is.
Oh my fucking God. It's a joke. Must be. How-how just...Ugh.
Max has to crack his brain in order to at least try and understand the cocktail of his feelings. If Charles' smirk haunted him yesterday, it's burned permanently into his retinas now.
What the fuck is this?
The absolute preposterousness of it all. The nonchalant glow, unbothered, unapologetic.
Max is more than aware of the stir the initial, dry, one post with no interview, announcing Charles' move caused. Light rain compared to this loud ass storm that's incoming.
He understands the need to rebrand. Probably sympathizes with the pressure Charles must be under, especially after the way how masterfully Lewis' move got handled from PR perspective. On the kindest of days, he even gets the point of making it big and loud.
The video is clearly designed to shock. To shake up the fans. To convince the more dramatic part of the Tifosi crowd – the ones who speak of Ferrari as they do of religion – to follow Charles. And it that way, Max understands. Ferrari fans are something else. The devil team ran deep in Charles' blood. Everyone knew it – because he made sure they did.
But, he's doing it again. Switching one story for another. Not bothering to ask why he even needs to be telling stories all the time. For a moment, Max contemplates time travel and imagines dropping young Charles into the world of cinema instead of motorsport. He'd thrive there, no question. Max is anything but calm.
It's just so...cringy. Like. What were they thinking with this? Sure, Charles is hot – we've established that – yes, seeing him acting up on the royal vibes he naturally gives off is a clever trick that works. Of course, the hair and make up department are at the top of their game. With the way how he moves in the video, you'd figure there was a movement coach present on the set. The editor of this video must love him so much they have a shrine next to the editing station.
If there is someone on this planet who can make licking a camera lens life-alteringly hot, it's Charles.
Unwanted lighting of suppressed desire shoots through Max. Fucking hell, Charles.
Is it really that cringy? Is Max's judgement affected by the reality of him knowing Charles for so many years that he just does not buy this persona he's playing up to be?
Perhaps the video dances just on the crisp of the line of 'cool' and 'lame'. Max has to check once more. The phone is back in his hands. He's none the wiser after seeing the whole thing two more times.
He scrolls down, just to assess the situation. The comments are a nightmare. One of them is a particularly pleasant experience to read. "Red Bull saw the edits and said: bet."
By the end of this day, his phone is probably going to end up with a cracked screen, given how often he keeps throwing it away.
Ten minutes later, the phone is back in his hand again. A mistake he quickly regrets. The one final straw that causes him to burst out is a follow up image, now sitting at the top of all Red Bull Racing social media.Top of the feed. Pinned.
It's a photo from the first campaign shoot. Back when Max thought this whole campaign would be a quick brush with dumb drama before the real racing began. Oh, good old days. Two weeks ago.
It's the photo. Max is not one for visuals or finding meaning in pretentious art. But this one is so on the nose, even he understand the message.
Max, on the left, profile turned to camera. Jaw tight. Tilted up. Charles, across from him. Framed to the right, posture relaxed, expression milking in power. One finger under Max's chin, lifting it. The touch barely there, but permanent now, pixels sealed in, for anyone to have until the end of time. There's no visible conflict, no dramatics. Just this quiet certainty. A kind of terrifying grace. The same expression you only wear when you know the other person won't stop you. All very willing.
Max wishes to die.
Charles holding his helmet in the other hand, nestled against his hip like an apple. Like a royal apple, if you were looking for metaphor. Which is not what Max is doing. It hits him in the face no matter how much he tries to ignore it.
Max stares at it for a long time. The shape of the pose. The symmetry of it. At himself, like he agreed to be looked at that way.
And Max–
Max just stood there. Let it happen.
Twice.
Why, how and when Max got cast as the supporting character in all of this is way beyond his understanding.
How is he suppose to look Charles in the face after all of this? It's not like he can let it all fizzle out for few weeks. The remaining hours until he sees Charles again are vanishing like bubbles in yesterday's G&T.
If Max manages to get through their upcoming social interaction without ending up with Charles' finger under his chin, it will easily top one of his more boring race wins. After all, so far he's failed at doing that every single time he talked to Charles this year. Both times, 100% fail rate. It's going to be a long, long season.
He stares deeply into to ceiling, praying that Charles doesn't jump out of there too. No matter how cringeworthy he finds the whole campaign, one thing is clear. Max cares. Enough to let his morning get hijacked.
Max finds yet another hole to rot in. This time, it's watching his new teammate absolutely slay his new rollout. The same guy that walked out on him and probably went off to fuck Max's ex. It just has to be this sloppy make out session that drags Max out of the sexually repressed void he fell into. Only to show him what the world has to offer, before it tossed him back in.
To top this up, he now has the memory of Charles' finger toying with him left, right and centre and the guy didn't even have to touch Max's dick. And still! Here he is! Watching the video like just another hungry fan.
It's not Charles' fault that Max now can't get the image of them fucking on the top of RB22. The poor guy accidentally tapped into Max's favorite fantasy – which he should really address at this point, because it's probably getting unhealthy.
His mind runs in circles until his cats get real mad at him for delaying their breakfast. The growl of his own stomach joins their pleas. Being a human is a real nuisance sometimes.
The freshly cooked eggs lay untouched, as he sits pouting, like the plate personally offended him. While his own meal runs cold, he checks email inbox for the first time in days. He hadn't approved this. He hadn't even known it was ready. Charles had pitched the line? When? Why?
Three threads.
One from PR.
One from Marketing.
One from Charles's agent, forwarded through Christian.
All with attachments. All titled some version of: NOT YOUR PRINCE – FINAL CAMPAIGN
He hadn't opened them before. Doesn't now. Why would he, the damage is done.
Instead, he stares at the screen, jaw set, mind blank.
Max – the multiple world champion, Red Bull's protege – found out in bed.
In his fucking pajamas.
It sits with Max like a piece of onion that fell under the fridge few weeks ago. Out of reach, rotting somewhere close by, and now making the whole place smell.
He is currently sat in his living room, frowning angrily at no one and nothing in particular, letting his thoughts run freely.
He's officially decided on his main emotional response regarding the rollout. Took him an hour of swaying back and forth between numb confusion, deadpan disbelief, spikes of conflicting horniness, disgust and the creeping dread of someone who's slowly realizing they've been made into a symbol against their will.
Max is mad. At many people.
The team, for not stopping it. Charles, for thinking this was clever. The world, for buying into this bullshit like it's gospel. Himself, most of all, for giving enough of a shit that his chest feels like it's going to explode.
Right. Time to ruin other people's Sunday.
He dials. Out of sheer spiritual necessity.
Anna, his own PR Manager, picks up halfway through the first ring. She sounds far too happy. "Max! Hi. Is this a social call or a–"
"You do realize," Max begins, ignoring her entirely, voice cold as ice, "that I found out about the video while lying down in bed, ready for a nice pleasant day,
A lie, but he's allowed to enhance the drama. "Sunday, I might add."
Pause on the other of the line, then a quiet sigh. "Right."
Max remains mad. "Wearing a t-shirt from 2018. With a Red Bull logo on it. Isn't that poetic? A nice, full-circle moment. How touching."
"Okay," she says, cautious now. "So I'm guessing you saw..."
"I watched it twice. Then I watched it again. And then once more, just in case I was hallucinating the part where he licks the camera like it's a fucking communion ritual."
He's speaking way to loudly now.
"Max–"
"No, no. Anna. This is a safe space. I want you to walk me through it. Step by step. At what precise moment did we, a billion-dollar brand, decide that a soft-core Red Bull porn sequence is best way to say 'We're back for this season, in case anyone doubted, buy out t-shirts.'?"
He's not expecting an answer. In fact, he can see the emotionless, fight-or-flight face so clearly in his mind, she might as well be standing here in his apartment. Max is far from done and they both know it.
"What happened to the concept deck where we're just two rivals reuniting? Hm? What happened to team identity and two lions?"
It's felines! That's basically cats. Who does not love those? It was the first idea in years that he really loved. Where. Are. Max's. Lions.
"It is a team narrative," she says, failing at convincing him that she believes her own words.
"Interesting. Must be a different team than I signed up to. Wanna be royalty too busy with fashion shows. If Charles wanted a fairytale, he should have stayed at Ferrari. I'm sure if he asked very nicely, they'd make him a prince of Monaco in-waiting."
He is everywhere in this city. Why isn't the fact they kiss the ground he walks on enough?
"I believe the whole point is that he is not a pri-"
"Anna," Max cuts her off so fast the echo's still bouncing off the walls. "Think hard about what you want to say to me."
There's a tense silence on the other end. The kind where you can hear someone dialing down their entire personality and replacing it with corporate dialect.
"Right. Nothing...I'll make sure to mark down your notes," she gulps.
Max paces the kitchen, barefoot and increasingly homicidal. "Why was I not made aware of this? It is my face too, in case you forgot."
"Well. You are on CC' on all the emails, Max," she speaks with more ground under her feet.
Max squeezes the phone in his hands. "Do you really think I open PDFs with filenames like 'final-final-FINAL v3'?"
"I hoped," she says, pointedly. "You told me not call you to check in with these things."
He does not even to stop to catch a breath. "I hired you because your reference said you have a sharp instinct for tone and that you're not afraid to take initiative," he pauses. Lets the spite roll into sarcasm. "Do both of those cost extra?"
She sighs, sounding almost human, almost as if she sympathizes. "I understand you're angry. We can learn from this experience."
"It's a fucking cringefest, Anna!"
"I understand your point, but the board agreed that Charles is looking very handsome in the video-"
Well, you should see him all flushed out with swollen lips in a club bathroom pressed up against the wall.
He settles with a different direction. "May I remind you that this a racing team, not a modeling agency?"
"I think if we use this argument, they will argue that you're a bit dramatic..."
"Am I? Because I just saw a very expensive piece of cinema followed by pretentious photos in which I'm clearly positioned as the quiet power bottom of the motorsport monarchy!"
This comment he's unable to stop from slipping out. Can't win all the battles.
There's a muffled thump on her end. Possibly her forehead meeting her desk.
"Okay, let's face it," she says, clearly trying to find reason. Which there is none, Max is sure of it. "First, it's just the launch. This was always supposed to be Charles' moment. We staggered the content rollout to let his story breathe first, then–"
"It's not about him if I'm there standing like–"
"Second – it's understandable that you're mad. I get it," she acknowledges But this is where it's headed, Max. The brand is shifting, it's out of our hands, I'm afraid. Charles is big right now. There's hype, the numbers are great, and yes, it's theatrical, but so are you."
"No, I'm fast," he mutters.
"Your brand is fast and theatrical. As far as I'm aware, nobody forced you to stand there for the photo, correct? If so, it's a very different conversation."
Anna is far too cheeky for her own good. He groans. "I want out. Pull my name, pull my image–"
"Max, are you serious?"
"I am serious!"
"Please reconsider. Because you know it's a good campaign. You can only gain from this extra, low effort publicity. Charles is out there doing all the legwork for you. Our numbers are reaching new highs too."
He falls quiet. But not calm.
"Look," Anna speaks, like the peacemaker this job demands her to be. "I'll talk to the team. Maybe we tone down the next rollout. Keep you less... prince-related."
"Do that. Also, from now on, you're going to present at every photoshoot, filming or whichever fucking bullshit these people come up with."
This is the first time today he hears her surprised. "You were the one who said you didn't need me there."
The disbelief in her voice riles him up.
"Would you look at that. It's a promotion. You are now personally responsible if anything like this ever happens again. Congrats."
He hangs up without saying a goodbye. It's unfair and of course he knows it, but Max is mad, which is impossible to navigate no matter how hard he tries.
He kicks a random cat's toy on the floor and mumbles, "I was never your prince. And I'm done pretending I wanted to be," in a mocking tone, making sure he includes the annoying French accent too, as he opens the fridge, hoping it swallows him dead.
47 seconds later, he's dialing up the same number.
"Yes, Max?" the ever-patient Anna picks up. Tone very much giving away she's expecting more of Verstappen sea of insults.
Max is about to disappoint her. "Um," he starts, careful and less energetic tone on, thinking how to voice his thoughts.
"Just. Make sure that the Red Bull media team does not find out how mad this made me," he says, trying to find any remaining casual vibe in his voice. Which is not a lot. "You know, for strategic reasons," he squeezes his eyes, because now that he hears himself saying that, he understands that Anna will have no choice but to declare him terminally insane.
There is a long pause on the other line. "Sure. As you wish," she replies slowly, doing equally bad job at hiding her confusion as Max was with his attempt at sounding chill.
"Good. Understood," he concludes and hangs up on her again. He adds this experience on the top of the list of reasons why he'd quit Red Bull. Now he can argue, that his democratic beliefs don't align with the aristocratic connotations of their brand identity. A true dream come true. What a time to be Max Verstappen.
The early morning Zoom's winding down. Christian's face still fills one of the squares, jaw tense with satisfaction. There are many people present online on this catch up, but only few are on Charles radar – Red Bull Racing top management, Julia, Liam, Anna and most notably, Max's absence. Something about it makes him giddy.
"Well done, everyone," Christian says. "It's loud, but it's working. London rollout's going to pull this wide open."
Anna nods tightly. "We're seeing good press sentiment. High engagement, minimal internal blowback."
Charles flicks his eyes to Julia's window, then Liam's. The words 'internal blowback' along with 'different expectations within the team' are included in as code words for 'Max is not happy'. Thrown around so often, it's a safe bet. By watching these two professionally keeping their faces straight, he misses a few recycled phrases Anna and Christian exchange.
"Unexpected is fine," Christian says. "Unexpected sells. We'll get the racing coverage once testing starts. Right now, all that matters is people can't stop watching it. The full campaign rolls out in London, but this gives us a serious head start."
Anna nods. Nothing to add from Charles' side.
"Anything else?" There's a short beat. Julia shakes her head. Liam gives a thumbs-up like this is a casual group project. Christian claps his hands once. "Right then. Nice work, everyone. Anna, thank you for managing the silence from Max's end. I know that's been... interesting."
Anna does a barely-there smile. "Just part of the job."
Christian does not comment further. "Alright. See you all in London," and logs off first. One by one, the tiles disappear. Anna lingers a second too long, until it's only her and the group Charles calls the 'core squad'. It's a bit awkward. They have things to discuss without her.
"Anna," Julia says, smiling a little too nicely, "could you let Charles and Liam and me chat for just a moment?"
Anna throws a fake smile. "Of course. Have a productive day everyone." She disappears.
Charles waits exactly one second. "Alright. Who's got it?"
Julia grins. "Charles, so unprofessional," she grins and focuses on her printed bingo sheet.
"I know! But I'm asking politely," he whines, leaning back like he owns the room. Which, to be fair, he almost does.
"I do, loser!" Liam announces, pointing at Julia, triumphant. "Two points, actually. Internal blowback, my favorite!" He leans into frame, waving his crossed-out sheet in front of the camera.
These two have a 'Useless PR and Management Catch Ups' bingo championship they'd been playing for years. They even have a special custom design sheets with Red Bull logos. Charles admires and greatly respects the dedication. They've promised he can join, if he survives the season. At the moment, he's just an observer. It's rude, frankly.
"Liam, you can't use 'long journey ahead', Charles said that one," Julia argues, clearly unhappy with losing.
"Fine. One point. I'll update the results for you, my dear," Liam says, unbothered, already halfway into a spreadsheet.
Charles just chuckles. "So, Julia," he shifts the attention towards him again, "Any real news?" He is not asking a random question. Julia knows it, Liam knows it.
Julia raises a brow. "Anna won't be caught dead saying it on the call, but she did come back to us privately with Max's reaction to the campaign."
"Max's reaction? He noticed?" Charles replies, sarcasm dripping off his lips.
Julia swallows a laugh. As if this circus they caused was even possible to ignore. "I believe so."
"Come on, tell me," he says it like it's the latest student gossip about two teachers spotted kissing each other. Liam is having a very good morning, by the looks on his face.
"Let me read you Anna's word for word," Julia stalls and in the meantime searches through what seems to be a notebook filled with unreadable notes.
Charles is curious. Very, very much.
"Ah, yes," she finds the page, glances up to check she has Charles’s full attention. He gives her a nod. "'Uhm, uhm," she clears her throat, sets in a faux formal tone. "Max has expressed a minor concern whether the direction of the "prince rollout" paints Red Bull Racing brand in the right light. He's afraid we're drifting away from actual racing. He would like to excluded in the prince narrative as much as possible, within the limits of his contract."
She looks up again. Her nostrils twitch. The smirk is mutual.
"So he's pissed." Charles says.
Julia cracks and releases her smile from captivity. "Oh yeah. That's for sure. This kind of a polished comment only comes when he's fuming."
Charles stops pretending to be neutral. "Good. Great job, team. I must say, you're making the transition to your team way easier."
"Charles, keep the honey off our faces, please," Liam objects, already becoming immune towards Charles' cheap tricks.
"My God, I can't say one nice thing," Charles replies, hand over his heart. Then, he takes a breath in and switches up the mood. "What do we think of Anna?"
Julia's newly found suspition is written all over her face. "In what sense?"
"Is she good at her job? Easy to work with?" Charles asks casually. Too casually, in fact.
Julia doesn't bite, but she doesn't retreat either. "Well, she has great experience from other fields, as I understood. First time handling a driver. She keeps her distance from us, for obvious reason. But I don't think it's her preferred way of working."
Liam stays silent, decoding the questions. Oh, how Charles loves being the centre of attention in any room.
So, he continues. "Okay, interesting. Say, hypothetically, does your department have the resources for potentially hiring another member to your team? Someone with the experience of handling a driver?"
Julia angles her head, expression locked in, unmoving. "Charles. What are you planning?"
He shakes his head innocently. "I'm not planning anything, per say. Just thinking about poor Anna. Given how hard her job must be… it would be a shame if other teams got a hold of her. Should she decide to leave Max."
"Oh my God, Charles," Julia mutters, exasperated.
Liam, off camera, just whispers, "War criminal."
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'll be very busy at the London rollout. I'm sure you will be too. Just, maybe if you find a moment of peace, you could start working on Anna liking you, in extension us, a bit more. You never know."
Few weeks ago, it had felt like being a visitor in someone else's garden. Trespassing, climbing over a fence instead of holding a key. Charles, the rival who shouldn't be here.
Today, one of the warning signs might as well be a photo of his face.
The contrast is loud as a siren. People smile at him, as if he'd already brought a trophy. He bumps into Liam on his way to the simulator room and just like that, Charles realizes how crucial a good, honest bit of small talk can be.
How much it matters to feel the stable ground under your feet, even for five seconds, in the middle of a factory built to eat you alive – unless you're Max Verstappen.
Max. Oh, Max.
No matter how much Charles tries to dial it down, it's impossible to kill the excitement completely. There's reckless kind of pleasure – seeing someone, who's been at the end of several successful antics in one weekend – crumble under the weight the magnetic pull. He feels like a schoolboy again, skipping classes to have a look at his kart. Tiny detour, forbidden, wrong. He's desperate to see Max wrestle with emotions he clearly doesn't want to have. Charles lives for moments like this. In a way, Max's reaction to the "prince campaign" is the one that counts the most. In a way, their make out session is suppose to linger on his mind and make his lips tingle next time Charles smiles at him when nobody watches.
It's addictive, in the way any good rivalry is supposed to be. That's all it is, Charles tells himself. The thrill of competition. The satisfaction of unsettling someone who’s made a career out of being unmovable.
He's supposed to enjoy it.
It's normal. Harmless. Tactical.
He doesn't notice the way his thoughts always spiral back to Max at the oddest moments. Coincidentally, the person Charles lies the most, is himself.
To Charles, it feels like another part of the game. He's here to win. And if part of winning means watching Max Verstappen struggle, burn, bend...then so be it.
He's almost giddy when he walks towards the dressing room next to the main sim area. But he is stopped before he even gets to open the door.
One of the key sim engineers, who's name Charles does not remember yet, gives him a taste of life at Red Bull. Today's session cancelled. Power cut damaged the sim set up during the night. No one is allowed to touch the sim until the situation is cleared.
No one told him.
Max got the memo. It's probably the reason why he's no where near Milton Keynes.
Confused and mildly angry Charles walks back, restless. Bluntly reminded he's still laying bricks in the basement while the windows he wants to look out of are five floors up.
Notes:
I've finished outlining the whole story, and I'm sorry - but we're gonna be here for a while
Somewhere along the line I lost the ability to write short stories
Thanks for all the support and comments, they are the fuel to my tendency to ignore my real life and get lost in fake PR wars or rich hot men
Isn't life amazing sometimes
Chapter 5: One Way or Another
Summary:
Max nominates himself as Charles' biggest problem.
Notes:
thank you for all the comments and support - you guys keep the spirits high!
let's have another round of corporate crack
Chapter Text
East London. An industrial, anonymous pop up studio with Red Bull colored neons hanging in the background.
And a very tired crew, even though it's barely ten in the morning. Because even though they'd been here since dawn, the schedule is already running behind. Charles always checks the call sheet to know what to expect. Two hours into the actual filming and they don't have a single take that works. Apparently, Max woke up today and decided to grace them with a full-on boycott.
Charles had spent the week wondering how Max would play it – nonchalant or flirt it off. Turns out, he picked something worse. It's clear from the first glance Max spares him. If Charles hoped for bratty, he got bitter. If mildly provoked, he got punishing.
A helmet segment was the first thing on the list. A kind of a slow-motion moment where Max passes Charles the Red Bull helmet with an inviting grit, a clear hint to the future battles on track. Anna shut it down immediately. "Too much symbolism," she said, tight-lipped. "This was not pre-approved."
Then they attempted a "first impressions" split-screen – each of them filmed separately, narrating their initial thoughts on one another. It got scrapped after a long debate over tone, and Max's refusal to elaborate beyond, "He looked clean."
Charles' recording of a heart-warming, charming story about seeing the same 'racing driver crazy eyes' as he saw in the mirror will have to find use elsewhere.
He tried speaking to Max between setups, only to be shut out completely. The silent treatment, in front of everyone, was a step too far. It's jarring. A week ago they were tangled up in a bathroom, sucking air out of each other's throats. Now Max acts like he doesn't even know him. It only confirms what Charles expected. While Max might fold in the heat of the moment, he is little too experienced at moving along and letting people go. As Pierre eloquently put it – Max is a bit of a whore. Usually, Charles does not care if he is one of many, so long as he's the most memorable. But this time, he foolishly thought he would be more of an exception to Max. Or didn't want to settle for anything less. He's too proud to admit that, even to himself. Let alone anybody else.
So now, the two drivers are sat across from each other, answering questions while "taste testing Padrón alcoholic products" as a part of a sponsor engagement. Unlike the previous concepts, they can't abandon this one so easily. The approved and "email certified" brief speaks of easy-going content of a fresh, new teammate duo, mainly aimed at adult audiences who need to indulge in safe escapism during midweek dinners.
The face Max is currently wearing screams many things, none of them would be considered anything nearing "easy-going". Charles wonders how far is Max willing to push. This attitude of his is playing against the likability Charles desperately worked on. Easily marketable is something he considers to be an achievement. But when Max has this face on, you could put a chocolate muffin next to him and it would look like a trap.
He is grateful that someone on the team had the foresight to swap the drink for apple juice or water. At the rate he's getting progressively more irritated with his darling of a teammate, real alcohol would be disastrous.
Their task is to take a sip out of one of the several glasses on the table, describe the taste of the product based on cues they receive from the brand representatives and then read out a question on a card under the glass. Simple. One would almost say fool-proof. This is the exact moment when Charles becomes certain that Max is determined on finding a way to make the producer's life a living nightmare.
Once the cameras are set and the word "action" roars through the warehouse, Charles introduces the video, as per the script. Energetic, welcoming. Nails it on the first go.
He picks up a glass of clear liquid and gives Max a measured look. Swirls it around. Lifts it to his nose, as if chasing some elusive aroma, which does not come from a glass of water. He takes a restrained sip. When he's sure they have enough footage of him 'thinking', he turns his head towards the cue card with the specific wording the client needs them to say.
A bold yet balanced profile. Zesty on first contact, followed by a slow, smoky finish. Inspired by high-pressure moments and unspoken understanding.
Charles blinks. The script already sliding out of his brain as he glances up. Across the table, Max is sitting crouched up like he's about to get interrogated by an immigration officer.
"Um," Charles stalls and tries to put the elaborate sentence in his own words. "It's citrusy, lemony – I mean zesty – at first," he over-corrects himself and fights the urge to look back at the cue card. "Nice smoky finish." It's one of his weaker performances to say the least.
He looks at Max, desperate for anything to bounce back on. His teammate just sits there and nods. Any type of vibe Charles sends his way gets absorbed into the black hole.
Charles puts the glass down, trying to pretend the take was usable, then grabs the card.
"Right! Now, Max," making eye contact, forcing energy toward the barely animated corpse across from him. "Ha, this is a great one! Max – What quality does your teammate have that you wish you had more of?"
He can't help but giggle. Takes another sip of the water – for the editors, and to have something to do while Max shoots arrows at him.
The response comes as neutrally as Max's face allows. "Confidence. Or delusion, hard to tell the difference sometimes."
Of course. Why would Max make this easy now? Charles smiles like it's a game, but his hands are gripping the stem of the glass a little too tightly.
He shoots back instantly. "Well, I wish I had the discipline and work ethic Max has. Always at the factory."
He knows he should stop. Just can't help it. "The first one to come."
They had barely spoken to each other today without the cameras looming over. In fact, ever since the bathroom incident, the amount of words they shared in the week would fit into a tweet. Max has been nothing but pain in the ass, so Charles does not feel particularly sorry for pushing few buttons. He has to find some excuse, because he's running out of the will to stay restrained.
Max does not flinch. Hell, he barely opens his mouth. And yet –
"I do like to be the first one."
Charles' heart starts beating just a bit faster. His overactive social-conspiracy-brain working overtime again. Trying to decipher whatever it is that Max is desperately trying not to tell him. He regrets not torturing him more deliberately in the bathroom.
"That's pretty obvious."
Charles can't believe he was looking forward to seeing Max. To joke with him, maybe share a sarcastic comment here and there. He expected Max to be difficult after the cocktail of events Charles intentionally and accidentally put together as a 'welcome to the team' gift for himself. But this face Max is pulling now is seriously pissing him off.
"I also like to finish when I start something. Leaving in the middle of an unfinished job is not the way to win," Max adds, as if he can sense that Charles is close to the edge of flipping out, but not quite there yet.
Instead, he smiles, inhales to get some fuel for his fiery response, but he's quickly stopped by one of the producers.
"Cut! Okay, um – "
The young producer looms over from behind the monitor and speaks more to the team rather than the drivers. "I think we'll just cut that after the first response."
He turns around, waiting for any pushback. When no one objects, he turns over to the reluctant actors. "Gentlemen, if I may ask you to keep the answers one-liners only. We need some bite size content for social media. And maybe…More friendly?"
The producer looks towards the Red Bull racing PR crew for some sort of confirmation. Liam gives him a small, less-than-confident nod. The producer sighs.
Max does not react and simply picks up a random glass with dark liquid. Plays his part and then looks up at the cue card. Charles does not see the text, but he expects Max to do at least equally bad job at memorizing and delivering the line.
He reads for few moments, then nods at the producer and takes one more sip.
"Hm," he gulps and fakes being impressed so well, that for a second Charles questions whether his drink is the real thing.
"I really like this one. A strong punch at first. The smoke tones come in layers," he tops his words with convincing gestures. Maybe too convincing. "But it leaves a nice, nice tail of," he rolls his tongue and fakes a deep thought, "What's the word…Yeah, nuttiness? Probably hazelnut. Very good."
Charles stares at him and fails on keeping his face straight. Is this guy for real? Now he decides that he can act? Max seems awfully pleased by himself and takes another small sip before he reads the question.
"Charles – What emotion drives you the most when you're racing?"
The desire to see your angry face when I beat you. The need to watch you trying to stay humble while I know you're fucking boiling inside out with rage.
"Hunger. The urge to beat everyone on track," Charles says calmly, as if he's talking about the weather. "What about you?"
Max doesn't ponder. "Paranoia."
Doesn't smile either. Just says it like it's obvious. Charles narrows his eyes, trying to tell if it's another joke or something real.
"Pardon?"
"Yes. It's much better to have to explain why you won than why you lost." Charles does not find it funny or clever. Max probably thinks it's both.
"Well, I do-"
"Charles," Max stops him. "One-liners, remember?" He doesn't even look at him. Just says it like he's doing Charles a favor.
Someone's getting strangled soon and Charles has a deep feeling that someone will be a Dutch person. Charles swallows his words, rage and all. He forces a closed-mouth smile that feels like chewing gravel.
"Right. Thank you, Max."
Charles reaches for a honey-colored liquid and lets half of the apple juice diluted with water wash down his throat. Reaches to the question.
"If your teammate was a track–"
"Charles, we need the description," the producer reminds him and point to the comically large cue card being held up somewhere behind Max's head.
"Yes, of course," Charles replies sincerely and reminds himself that the cameras are indeed rolling and he can't have Max shaking him up in any way.
"Silly me," he adds, throws in an apologetic smile that he knows many call 'cute' just to gain some likability points. His comment seems to work on everyone but Max.
Smoky at the start, but the herbal tones come in slowly – rosemary, sage, a touch of aloe vera. Rounded out by citrus peel and a mineral finish. Crafted for moments that start with tension and end in satisfaction, if you're lucky.
Charles wonders what goes on the mind of the crazy person writing these ridiculous descriptions. And all the people expecting him to actually read that out loud.
He takes a page out of Verstappen's Book of Convincing People I'm Cooperating and draws a breath.
"I'm getting a nice smoke at the start. Then it's almost like," he leans his nose into the glass and inhales the fumes coming from of the cheap apple juice, "Rosemary…maybe sage."
Max raises his eyebrows. "Really? What's the difference between rosemary and sage?" he asks, tilting his head. "I would never be able to tell the difference. Sage is very, very specific."
Charles does not take Max's bait, to great pleasure of all the crew standing in the darkness behind the bright lights.
"Max – If your teammate was a track, which one would he be?"
"Easy. Monaco."
It's the way how Max does not even stop to think about his answer that has Charles blushing. Maybe, just maybe, step by step they can make this work.
"Aw, really? That's nice of you," Charles mumbles, taking the crumbs, even through it's a pretty obvious answer.
"Yeah. Sometimes too much of a show, but nice to ride."
And just like that, the momentary warmth curdles. It's gone before Charles can even decide what to do with it.
"We will edit that out," Anna cuts in with same bluntness detected in Max's voice. Max, as if he only just now realized what he insinuated – which Charles knows is not true – locks eyes with her and gives her an approving smile and thumbs up.
Liam sighs a little too loudly and Charles flashes over to him, hoping he stands their ground. Not that he is a fan of this comment, but just out of sheer principle of being in Max's opposition. His train of thoughts seems to land.
"We will talk about it later," Liam counteracts Anna, and in a way that directly mocks his teammate, Charles gives Liam thumbs up too.
Max gives Charles a questioning, puzzled look. Which Charles loudly ignores.
"Spielberg. Overrated."
There's a pause. Not the kind that comes from dead air – no, this one crackles with the panic of five media professionals trying to telepathically rewrite reality. Charles realizes a beat too late what he's just said, but it's already out there. Years of Ferrari instinct don't disappear overnight. He just slandered the Red Bull Ring on camera.
Liam inhales sharply through his nose, the sound so delicate it's practically elegant. "You mean underrated, of course," he says with the calm precision of someone trying save a friend from making a fool out of themselves.
"Yes, yes. Of course," Charles tries to reach for the life boat Liam is offering.
He misses the light that's powering Max Verstappen. Who is currently shining so brightly, he could power up the whole studio. "So, wait. You think I'm underrated?" he asks, with the sliest smile know to mankind.
Charles has never wanted to drown in a can of energy drink before. This might be a first. There is no way he's answering that, so he just sits with his mouth shut. Max continues to beam.
Liam, ever the professional, clears his throat like a reset button. The next question arrives just in time to spare Charles further humiliation, and he latches onto it like a lifeline. They manage to compose themselves. Max still has that smug glint in his eye, but at least he's stopped grinning like a little devil child.
They survive the next question with neutral responses and something resembling a smile is forming on the producer's face. Peace does not last long.
Another round of playing pretend with the drink, another perfectly convincing delivery of the pre-written review, the words grapefruit zest and freshly ground up pepper sounding all too natural coming from Max's mouth.
"Charles, what's your biggest flaw?"
The urge to roll his eyes is strong. People need to get more creative with this stuff.
"I get angry behind the wheel," he says simply. It's not a confession – it's a warning. "You?"
Max is still swirling his drink like a bored teenager. "I find it hard to care anymore."
The mood shifts instantly. Semi-annoyed bouncing answers back and forth does not feel appropriate anymore. Charles does not know how to react to that, so he just watches Max skip his round and grab another glass of water, as if it's all nothing. Thanks to Max, he now adds the words bergamot and saffron into his vocabulary.
"Charles, what's your teammates biggest flaw?"
"He finds it hard to care anymore."
The silence after that one hangs even heavier. Even the producer doesn't jump in right away. Someone coughs near the lighting rig. It's all Max's fault. He turned the light-hearted content into existential dread.
Charles looks over to the other side of the table, half expecting a bite. "You?"
This word has probably never left his mouth with so much sarcasm packed inside.
A pause. "Nothing. Charles is perfect. Ask literally anyone." Max drown his words in cheap ridicule and then shifts focus to the glass, like it's more interesting than anything Charles could ever say. And to add some gravitas, downs the drink as if it's the real thing.
The Monegasque has just about had enough. "They should give out interview participation trophies. Maybe that would convince you to do your job."
Charles is overstepping: he knows it, everyone in the room knows it. Max repeats his move with drawing Anna out to shut it down and Charles does not even need to look to see her stoic face twitching as she announces loudly, for everyone to hear:
"I believe we have all we need for a two minute video. Suggest we move on."
It sets off a chain reaction. This has the young producer getting up from his chair, clearly trying to fight the urge to not to let his professionalism snap under the weight of irritation. He launches towards Anna, his gestures giving away enough information even despite him trying to speak discretely. Within seconds, Liam joins them. It's not the first time this circle of people is locked in a private conversation today and not the last time by the way this day is going so far.
Charles turns back to Max, still reeling from the bizarre descent of the shoot. Now that the attention is directed at other people, he finally asks.
"Max, what the fuck?" Charles whispers, totally bewildered. To think that he was actually looking forward to the shoot, until he's encountered the wall of silence that Max became, is surreal in hindsight.
"What do you mean 'what the fuck'. I should ask you! Do you even know which team you're driving for?" he asks, rhetorically and it's obvious he's still amused by Charles' slip up.
"Mine was a mistake, you're doing this on purpose. Why?"
Max does not reply. Instead he just points to the microphone tapped to his shirt and theatrically shakes his head. Charles rolls his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't fall out of his skull.
Moments spent with Carlos flash by. They found a rhythm so easily. Worked together as friends, which made the long days pass by with ease. It's clear that's not gonna happen here.
"It does not have to be all boring and annoying, you know?" he says, like a patient parent who's trying to convince their child to eat their greens.
"Oh I know that," Max leans back on his stool. "I used to have so much fun during PR. Good old days."
Charles' biggest flaw is his petty competitiveness. He's fully aware of that. Not that it affects the outcome in any way. "So it's only boring when I'm your teammate?"
"I didn't say that," Max deadpans.
"Well then explain what the fuck is up with you today!"
Max once again points to the microphone instead of providing an answer. Lips locked in a thin line and his shoulders doing the characteristic sarcastic shrug.
Charles just stares at him. He's done PR with Lewis, and it was fun in a tightrope sort of way. Controlled, careful. With Carlos, it was relaxed, even enjoyable. His years with Seb feel like another lifetime, but still, never, not once, has a teammate actively tried to sabotage joint appearances. Max isn't even doing it aggressively. He's just… making sure nothing works. The only thing they are achieving today is a waste of everyone's time.
Charles wonders how Red Bull keeps tolerating it. Guess that multiple back-to-back championships get you different treatment. He craves that power, desperately. And Max wears it like it's not even there. Like the fact they make sure he stands by his end of the deal by doing the bare minimum is still too much of a drag.
After few minutes of awkward silence between the two, which is only interrupted by a keen make up artist, who decides that this is the ideal moment for touch-ups, the unplanned break is broken up by Anna's quiet announcement.
"We've agreed that this version will be edited in the viral "Gen Z editing" style. We will revisit this at the next Pedrón shoot. Moving on."
She does not look like this solution pleases her. Like someone who just had to defend the existence of pineapple while being violently allergic to it.
Charles exhales sharply. The crew starts to move around them to get the last set up ready before the drivers depart on sponsor lunch.
When the spotlight falls off them during the sound of tripods getting moved and the crew chatting, Charles stops Max before he leaves to the other side of the room.
"Are you mad at me?" he asks, not bothering to soften it.
Last time he had seen Max behaving in a such a punch-worthy way has been a few years ago. Well, scratch that – behaving in such way towards Charles.
"No, why would you think that? Not everything is about you," Max gives a cold-stone reply, effectively confirming to Charles that he indeed is mad at him.
Fucking hell. These will be one long PR hell. Charles turns over to Liam, who does not look particularly happy either.
After a semi-successful shoot of more content, one that does not require them being in the same shot, they're heading off. No debrief, no cool down, just a straight shot into another round of a game of charades.
The car is silent. Each of them turned toward their own window, two sets of headphones on.
The driver is blissfully unaware of the cold war simmering in the back seat. Charles exhales slowly through his nose. Max hasn't looked at him once since they got in. Charles had wanted a reaction – but not like this. He thought pushing Max would rattle him, force him give up the practiced disinterest and respond.
By pushing him, Max would do the same to Charles and together they might come on top. But the bratty defiance, the pointed digs in front of the camera, the complete refusal to play along – it wasn't the kind of fire Charles had hoped for. Not the private heat they'd cracked open between them that night.
This? This was public sabotage. And the worst part was how precise it felt. Max knew exactly where to hit him – where it would make Charles look weak, foolish, too eager and staged. He didn't have to lift a finger. Just let Charles fall on his face while he watched. And maybe that was the answer, wasn't it? Max wasn't going to fight him. He is punishing him for trying.
They're last ones to arrive to the posh restaurant in Central London. When they enter the private salon, everyone is already sitting at the uncomfortably looking designer chairs.
Charles knows this type of lunch. Smile, nod, sell the vision. It's performative diplomacy dressed up as a culinary experience. Someone's gone to great lengths to make it look effortless. Perfectly folded napkins. Logos in all the right places: Ford, Red Bull, mapping the invisible weight of 2026.
There are fifteen people at the table. Four are drivers or team leadership. The rest are suits, consultants, or specialists with titles vague enough to mean they're important.
Max is seated diagonally across from him, which was either a brilliant seating strategy or an act of sabotage.
Charles can't tell which.
After a round of hellos and nice-to-meet-yous, Charles watches Christian take the lead. He's good at this – presses just the right amount of charm into each sentence, making vague promises sound like technical certainty.
"We're confident the partnership will put us miles ahead of the competition," he says, lifting his glass. "The work we've done already is, honestly, some of the most ambitious we've ever attempted."
The Ford execs nod, Charles smiles with them.
Max doesn't. Charles thinks he's the only one who hears his sneaky whisper, repeat of the word 'attempted'.
Max is making circles with a piece of artisan bread in a pool of overpriced olive oil, deeply focused on his activity, as if that was his life's mission. Every few minutes he glances toward the door like he wants to bolt. He hasn't said anything in twenty minutes. Which, for Max, is ominous. Charles has never seen him in a private sponsor setting, but knows Max well enough to know just how much he likes to blabber on about anything racing related when given the opportunity. No matter if the person is wearing rival team wear or a five thousand Euro tailored suit.
Charles starts to feel it again – that buzzing feeling, the one that's been crawling under his skin all morning. The failed photo shoot. The fake drinking game. Monaco-is-fun-to-ride. All of it. And now this. Max, sitting like he's a prisoner.
"So Charles," one of the Ford guys says. Todd, maybe. They all have names like Todd. "This new campaign's gotten a lot of traction already. That whole… 'Not Your Prince’…It's catchy. Bold."
Few people chuckle in reaction to Todd's insight.
Charles gives the standard humble-smile. "Thank you. The idea was to do a loud transition. Let everyone know that Red Bull is my future. Make it personal."
He doesn't have to look to feel Max's eyes on him. Burning holes.
"It's a bit different than what we've seen before," someone else chimes in. "Feels a little… dangerous. In a good way. We certainly did not expect that, to be honest it was a surprise to us all when the campaign dropped."
Charles nods, because that's what you do. He's done this long enough to know which words are bait and which ones bite back later.
"Max," another exec turns, cheerful and completely unaware they've just opened a bee hive. "What did you think of the launch?"
Max swallows, smiles. It's terrifying. Charles' heart sinks somewhere below the table as he waits.
"I think it's great," he says nonchalantly. Everyone who knows Max at least half of the amount of time as Charles does could visibly see the careful sarcasm. Charles does not know what to do with his hands, so he reaches for the glass of water as Max continues. "I mean, we all need a little re-branding sometimes. New color scheme. New narrative. Makes you feel like someone else."
A quiet beat. Just long enough for Christian to hold his breath.
"Not your prince," Max repeats, tone bone-dry. "But someone's, probably."
Charles almost chokes on his water.
The whole table laughs – nervous, too polite and fake. Christian says something about talented drivers always pushing boundaries, and the moment slides under the table like a dropped fork.
Charles forces a smile. He feels his stomach twist.
He doesn't know what the fuck is going on with Max today, but this isn't funny anymore. This isn't Max being difficult. This is Max unraveling in real time.
Charles tries to signal him with a look – please, stop. But Max is looking through him, past him, behind him, like he's not even here.
And of course, someone decides this is the perfect moment for a follow up.
"So – how's it been, settling in as teammates after all these years of being rivals?" a Ford suit asks brightly. "You two go way back, don't you? Must be nice to finally be on the same side."
Charles smiles before he can stop himself. The kind of smile you give when you've lost control of the story.
"Just because we're teammates, it does not mean we stopped being rivals," he states the obvious, but it lands well with the crowd. "But yes," he says, voice level. “It's been just few weeks, but so far so good. Familiar. In a surprising way."
He glances at Max, waiting. Hoping he'll at least meet him halfway.
Max leans forward slightly and Charles begs him silently to say something. Something normal, preferably. Lie, if you have to.
Max delivers. "Feels like when you break up with someone and think, we can still be friends, it will be different this time, and then realize…No. You really can't."
The silence that follows isn't sharp, it's total. Like someone pressed mute on the room.
Max takes a slow sip of water. Shrugs. "Anyway. Early days. Maybe it will be different this time."
Charles keeps his smile frozen in place. He knows better than to react. Christian chuckles thinly and redirects to a question about engine integration timelines.
Charles doesn't hear the answer. Doesn't notice the dessert arriving. All he hears is the steady hum of his blood, and the undeniable fact that Max just declared emotional war in front of half their benefactors. A valley of hostility forming between them. Quiet, deep. And Max just sitting there. Like he wants the whole room to fall into it.
Smething needs to change...Quickly.
Charles can feel the mood tipping off balance, sliding away into nothingness. He scrambles for some footing.
"Speaking of early days," he says, voice still calm, still professional, "I heard the new power unit's been progressing?"
He's trying to be helpful. Trying to shift the energy into safe territory. It detonates instantly. Across the table, one of the Red Bull Development guys freezes with a fork halfway to his mouth. A woman in a tailored blazer clears her throat. Max lets out a breath. It's not a sigh. It's too controlled for that. It's the sound of a fuse catching fire.
Christian cuts in so smoothly it feels almost rehearsed. "It's a complex project, naturally. A lot of innovation happening behind the scenes."
One of the other executives nods a bit too eagerly. "It's exciting. Still early, but exciting."
'Still early' must mean something else in British corporate slang, because for Charles, barely days before the first pre-tests does not count as early. Charles concludes that keeping his mouth shut might be the only way to survive this and still have a job by the time the waiters come asking if anyone wants to order a coffee.
They share a knowing look between him and his new team principle. Not that Charles particularly understands the current coldness in his eyes. He hates failing Christian. Charles excels at sponsor events. They always bring him out in the time of crisis. He's proud of being the secret weapon to charm the bad days away. Well, the ones for Ferrari at least. This serves as a painful reminder just how many things he took for granted.
Wave of unexpected sorrow washes over Charles. Out of nowhere, he longs to hear the Italian language again.
It's been awfully British so far. There is something deeply cold about the accent. It hits him, just how homesick is this lunch making him feel. In an environment like this, he can't do anything but just try to bury this deep, deep inside. Maybe then it'll go away.
Charles doesn't breathe out fully until he's alone in his hotel room. There are still few hours left before some stylists arrive to dress him and Max up for evening main event. He takes this precious time to regroup internally, before he decides to call Mia, his personal PR Manager. For advice definitely, for impromptu therapy session possibly.
He's grateful that she spares him of unnecessary pleasantries and gets straight to the point. Even though she's already at the venue where the pseudo-gala is being held tonight, she's on top of all things happening with her trusted client.
"Charles, I've just got off the phone with Liam. He's pretty concerned about today's footage so far."
If there is one thing Charles is allergic to, it's feeling like he's failing others. He paces around as he braces for more unpleasant words he deserves to hear.
"We're lucky to have full editorial control. But outside our team bubble, we can't afford this kind of hostile vibe.…Liam says they have to reschedule the drinking segment, but apparently he'll make something up about not having enough time on set. I don't know Liam that much, but you told me I should trust them, so I do."
Charles pinches his nose and mentally thanks Liam for saving the day. "I know, I think it's safe…"
"Verstappen won't cooperate. But we knew that and it's not something you can't handle. Steer the ship in the right direction."
Charles appreciates how straight-to-the point Mia is. But right now, he's in an internal battle with his confidence. Getting beaten on track is one thing, failing at a simple task as a brand video is just embarrassing. He is supposed to be reclaiming his legacy. Not letting Max walk all over it by being difficult.
He lets it all out. After all, that's partly what Mia is here for. "I just…" He runs a hand through his hair. "I was not expecting him to be so moody. He's been so nice to me in the past years." He sits back, staring at the ceiling. Then, quieter: "And you don't even want to know how much of a disaster the lunch was. I'm expecting Christian to call you up any minute now."
And maybe that's what stings the most. Not just Max's mood, but the familiar sinking feeling that he's scaring people off again by being too much of himself. He knows he's not the pure, nice guy he likes to present to the masses. Many times people have drawn back when they slowly put together the truth. It's why he's insisting on keeping Mia around. She knows exactly who he is and still likes him.
"Times change, Charles. You're directly targeting his spot. In the media now, on track in few weeks. He can sense that. You need to decide if you're in Red Bull to be his supporting act or on his level."
"Mia, that's not even a question-"
"Well then stop asking why he's not friendly towards you. Max is ruthless. You need to get in his head. Focus on the mission."
For a second, Charles debates whether question her claim – Max makes sure that people think he does not care about PR. So much it's bit suspicious. There are too many walls between them for Charles to get to the bottom of it.
Charles sacrificed many things for his career. This will just be another one of the list. He lets out a breath of acceptance.
"You're right."
Mia changes her tone to less unapologetic one. "Use all you have. You've done a good job so far."
She lets it hang in, he does not react. Because a good job is not meeting either of theirs standards.
"I'll hang up now, Horner is calling me," she concludes and the phone goes silent. Unlike Charles' thoughts.
It does not sit well with Charles. One thing is playing PR games, the other thing is wrecking a friendship. If he were still nineteen, Max would already be under the bus. Thrown there by Charles on his day off.
But he's not nineteen anymore. He's not the cold, reckless hothead people once hoped him to grow out of. He's lost many friends, who trusted him, because of his past behavior. Fed up too many people that way – pushed them too hard, worn the connection thin until there was nothing left. Life has taught him that when someone walks away, there's no rule saying someone else will appear.
That's why he keeps Mia. She sees all of him and stays.
That's why losing Max – really losing him – would feel like more than just a professional casualty.
Maybe he underestimated how fast Max would break. Or maybe he just didn't think Max would break at all.
The Lestappen thing never rose out of hatred. It came from closeness. The kind no one else would understand, not fully. And since the announcement, every gain Charles makes with the team costs him something with Max. Ever since the announcement, Max has been off. And now, it almost does not matter what happens. Whatever Charles does lately, doesn't matter if it's strategic or by chance – if it moves him one step closer to Red Bull's inner circle, it shoves him seven steps further from Max.
Perhaps Charles can stop this from spiraling into pure resentment. No matter how much would his younger self be loudly opposed, there are very few people on this planet who will ever be able to understand the context of Charles' life. And vice versa. Before he sacrifices any future connection with Max, he needs do everything in order to prevent it.
He has to at least try.
He always tries. That's the deal, right? He fixes things. He holds the line. Even if it means giving up a small win for the bigger picture. Of course he can fix this. He's Charles fucking Leclerc.
It's not Max's fault that the words fall out of his mouth and form sentences that make him sound either annoyed, flirty or some strange combination of the two. Max doesn't even feel particularly fed up and definitely not horny, so there is no good reason for his voice to come out like that.
Once he saw Charles standing on the set, freshly shaven, hair on point and generally in full glory, his mind short-cut. He got so used to seeing his face in 2D on the tiny screen on his phone over this last week, that the 3D version, the non edited one, just sort of broke him in half.
There is a switch inside his brain. When it flips, he can't control his speech. Typical effect once he's overstimulated, after spending too long in joyous and safe solitude. When he's encountered with real life, back surrounded by other humans. People you can't mute on Discord, or ignore over email. And suddenly, the words just… happen. When this mystery switch gets flipped, it takes a miracle for Max to control himself. The best thing about this whole experience is that he has no idea why he's like this.
It's not like he can't see what he's doing to his surroundings, to virtually anyone who has the misfortune of being in the same room. He's aware that the sound guy must properly hate him after Max muttered something about the boom mic looking like it had more charisma than half the people in the room. Of course the PR team must be pissed, because Max is media literate enough after years of being forced into being a public figure, he can tell when the footage is tragic.
He does not feel guilty about the sponsor lunch. Horner should know better than have him there, when they both know the engine has been nothing but a total fuck-fest so far. That one is not on him.
Don't even get him started on whatever concoction of badly muted reactions he accidentally ended up summoning on Charles' face. Max could physically see how Charles tried to create a mood, a connection, based on which they can film some nice content off, or impress pseudo-important people.
But no, Max's brain is on a strike and when that happens, he can't possibly be blamed for that.
His reprimand will be the hours he'll spend groaning when he's alone, replaying every cringe sentence that left his mouth and graced the ears of others. While they might be asking in the moment "Why is Max being such and asshole?" and then move on to other things, Max will sit with that question for days on time.
So in a way, he's on the worst end of this deal.
And now he can add another layer – Why is he sitting here, making shit aggressive double entendres when speaking to…Charles? (he wants to call him his teammate – they hadn't even raced in the same car yet, so Max is not married to the idea; calling him his crush seems over-the-top, and the words random night club hook up usually don't apply to someone you watched go through puberty and see every other weekend)
He's always hated how media have the tendency of sexualizing Charles, yet here he is, saying things like "I like to finish when I start," while staring in his face.
When Max's brain is like this, it's hard to recall the chronological order of events and sentences, so he's not sure which one of them started this, but he is damn sure about himself being the one who crossed the line.
Frankly, it's embarrassing.
Nothing new in the world of Max.
He's almost looking forward to burying himself in the bed and wallowing until the end of time. At least under the duvet, he doesn't have to make sense to anyone.
He's still wearing half of his formal clothes, sprawled sideways across the mattress like someone crash-landed there. One sock on. Hair flattened in weird directions. He hasn't moved in twenty minutes.
His illusion of few hours of peace, before he has to parade to the world like the sheep they make him cosplay as, is apparently not on Charles' today's agenda.
Because he calls him. Max declines. The phone rings again, Max puts it on silent.
Two minutes later, the same thing happens and Max makes a mental note to disable vibrations. He kicks the duvet off. Grabs the phone like it insulted his mother.
He picks up the phone with a loud groan and does not give Charles a second to react. "What? Can you leave me be? You'll see me in like two hours. Bro, whatever it is, it can wait."
Charles stays silent and Max rolls on his back as he waits for the royal response.
"You and I need to talk before that, bro. If we continue like we did today, I'm sure the only thing we'll achieve is having to sit in 'chemistry meetings'...Bro."
Okay, so Charles is not happy about Max calling him a 'bro'. Noted. Max will make sure to use it as often as possible. "What the fuck is a 'chemistry meeting'."
"Ah, makes sense that Red Bull does not have those. If you continue acting like a dick, I'm sure they'll introduce you to the concept and trust me, nothing will make you hate life more."
Max doubts that Charles comprehends how much that already happens.
"There's nothing to talk about, Charles." He rubs a hand across his face, scrubs at his eyes like his intention is to erase the entire day off.
This is the last thing he wants: deep talks. Especially in daylight.
"Max, I'm not some random teammate who'll let you get away with acting like an asshole. So, either we talk or I'll make sure you walk out of this experience with reputation so fucked you'll have to move to a deserted island."
For a brief second, Max plays with the idea or having him do as such. But then he figures islands are usually hot as fuck and he does not wish to spend his life looking like a roasted carrot. Also, he still loves racing. Maybe clearing the air up with Charles might resolve in both of them finally focusing on racing and not the circus around. No matter how much his body is opposing the idea of complex sentences.
"Fine. Go on then."
"Good boy, Max. I'm glad you want to work it out."
Charles can get fucked.
"So?"
"So, tell me your room number, this is not a phone conversation."
"No."
"Max."
"Charles, I don't want to see you right now."
"Max. I do not care," he says, making sure ever syllable lands.
Max stares out of the window to the grim, foggy London scenery. Wishes he could dissolve in it. "Fine, Christ."
Oh, how he longs to be in the safety of his Monaco apartment with his cats providing emotional support. "1006."
"Great. The same floor as me."
Of course it is. Of fucking course it is.
Max prays, for the first time in years, for any form of divine intervention that would stop Charles from finding his door. Nothing like that comes. Unlike the knocking, which plagues the room like a morning alarm clock. He accidentally steps on his own toe while searching for the second sock.
Opening the door is a bad idea. Letting him is a terrible idea. Failing at avoiding Charles' face is just one tiny cherry to add at the top of Max's tragic cake. And now he's here, bringing that signature scent with him. Designer fragrance and arrogance.
As expected, he lets himself in and does not wait for permission. All that Monaco charm and zero boundaries.
He looks around as if to judge Max's hotel room. When he's satisfied, he finally speaks. "Are you gonna offer me a glass of water or something?"
Charles invites himself over and proceeds to judge Max on his hospitality. This man, seriously. Max will rather shoot himself before admitting his presence is affecting him in any way. Which is probably why he can't shut up.
"Sure. Would you like one with citrusy finish or with smoky aftertaste?"
Max does not move. He really needs to find the source of his bitchiness, because these are new levels even by his standards. But, when a car aqua-planes, not much can be done when it's already happening.
Since Max stands still, Charles just nods condescendingly and walks over to the sink. Pours one glass, and then another. Takes his time to admire the view as he goes back to Max, who still hasn't left the hallway. The silence is obnoxious.
"I'm not thirsty."
Charles is clearly not amused with his refusal of the peace offering. "Well then be a sweetheart and hold it for me."
Max takes the glass. Then puts it over at nearest possible surface, making sure to use just the amount of force for the thing to make a noise, but not cracking. Charles watches the move like it's a bad sitcom sketch. Max doesn't meet his eyes. Just crosses his arms and wishes there was a wall behind him to lean against to.
"Typical. You spent the whole day acting like a spoiled little shit, and I'm the one who has to clean up after you."
Hard to fight him on that one, Max has to give it to him. Silently, of course.
"Wow. Thanks for stopping by. Want me to sign your t-shirt?"
Charles drinks his water and also puts his glass down. Dramatically enough that Max assumes he's suppose to be searching for some kind of a message.
"You think this is funny?"
"I think you're very upset for someone who got all the attention he wanted."
Charles raises his brows. "Are you jealous of the attention?"
Max is many things. Jealous of attention is probably the last one.
"Have it all, Charles. Be my guest."
He scoffs. "With a host like you, it sounds like an insult."
"Then get the fuck out. Door's right behind you." Max realizes he doesn't mean it. Not fully. Probably. But he wants to see if Charles will cave.
He doesn't.
He takes a step forward instead. Max does not feel like fighting a silent proximity war, so he just walks over to the living room situation in the center of the suite. More space. Less hallway.
Charles follows him, annoying Max with the ability to talk while walking. "Max, what the fuck is bothering you so much? Is it the campaign? Because – fucking hell, Max."
There's frustration in his voice, but it's laced with something that dangerously resembles real concern. Max knows better than to trust that. He keeps his gaze on the coffee table, willing Charles to shut up or blow up. Either would be easier.
Charles keeps going, voice thick with impatience. "If it's really pissing you off this much, so much that you won't talk to me the whole season, I will dial it down."
They share an empty look. Charles waits for any reaction and when Max does not grant him the pleasure, he just he just he spreads his hands, palms up, like he's laying the whole thing down between them and walking away from it.
"There, you win," Charles says, voice quieter and less packed up with pressure. "Now go and be normal. Like you used to be."
Like Max used to be.
Energetic. Enthusiastic. Full of fire.
Seems like a distant memory.
Max fought a little too hard for the peace of mind. When he earned it, there happened to be very few things left in his life.
When Max finally turns to him, he finds that Charles is not done with his speech. "You've got everything – team built around you, unlimited tolerance of your moods, insider information…And you're still sitting there acting like you're being screwed over."
Max does not know how to respond to this train of though. So he stalls. Laughs. "You think that's what this is?"
To add some more spice, he shakes his head, like whatever Charles is saying holds no ground. Which, of course, is not true and Max is almost glad for new material to ponder on during his self-hate sessions.
Charles, quite predictably, finally snaps. A wrinkle forms on his forehead. "Well, what is it then? You won't talk to anyone, don't think I've seen you in the factory once! You won't even joke like a normal human being."
It's almost sad to watch Charles even try.
Max tells the truth. As it is.
"Because I don't trust anyone to tell me the truth. Not the team. Not Christian. Not you."
Despite the fact Max delivers his line without any intended poison, Charles takes it personally.
"What the fuck did I do?"
What did Charles do? It's a good question and Max has to dig a little in order to internally justify his anger towards Charles.
Crossed a line while playing a game of jealousy with Pierre. Used Max. Which is not the thing that makes him furious, it's the fact Max made it so easy for Charles to do so.
But the whole 'photo shoot thing with the finger' might just be the best exhibit. Max sighs.
It's been like this for years.
Charles smiles and Max comes forward, running.
Charles glances and Max ends up staring.
Max does not particularly mind the fact he's being used. Especially not if he gains pleasure from it. Use him day and night, for all he cares. Being left stranded and rejected is what pisses him off. Failing at setting his own boundaries is what kicks him down. Charles certainly does not need to know all of that.
"You started believing your own PR."
Max remembers very well that only few nights ago, it was him who asked very similar questions. But that was before they fucked it up. Now Charles is here, demanding answer he frankly probably deserves and Max can't help but be a never-ending problem.
"Max, stop bullshitting me."
Letting him in this room is proving to be a bigger mistake than expected.
"Leave me alone, Charles."
"Do you even know why you're angry at me?"
"I'm not angry," Max tries to state calmly, but his gritted teeth betray him.
Charles grants him a punch-worthy smile. "Could've fooled me."
Max throws his hands up and then down. Because what is he suppose to say to that. He's already got Charles over here, angry, disappointed and fed up, so in a way Max's job is done. Push Charles as far away as possible so that Max's inner peace stays protected.
The glint in Charles' eyes is nuclear. "Max. I don't like this."
He says it with a tone that would convince fire to apologize for burning. What is it with this man and his indestructible determination?
"While I'm over here, having the time of my life," Max responds dryly.
"I don't like when you're being a dick towards me."
Max does not like it either. But if he admits that, he will once again have to face the insanity allegations.
Charles looks like he's about to explode.
"And don't make that face – this isn't about everyone liking me, alright?"
He gestures vaguely, almost pacing now, like the words are spilling faster than he can shape them. "I don't care if random people hate me. I really don't. But you..." He cuts himself off, jaw tight, then forces it out. "I didn't think you would."
Charles looks away, embarrassed by his own honesty and to be fair, Max is too. It sits in the space between them like a dropped glass. Max doesn't pick it up.
He is as wrong about this as they possibly come, but Max doesn't correct him. It's safer. Instead, he speaks slowly, letting each word land, hands on his hips and eyes locked in.
"Boo hoo. You're at Red Bull now. Get used to people not liking you."
It's true. For some reason, part of Max wishes Charles manages to break the anti-Red Bull fans. He saw him getting slandered once and people like Charles are not born to experience that. Max can handle it – he does not care. The fragile man, hidden behind countless protective layers, standing in front of him, might not. It's something Max does not want be a witness to.
Charles groans, sharp and frustrated. "You act like everyone's against you. Maybe you need that to feel like a genius, a racing prodigy."
Deep breath. Patron saint of headaches, that's what this man is. "Better than needing everyone to love you so you can feel real." It slips out before he can think it through. Judging by the frown he's met with, he should have spared a moment of thought.
"Fuck you." Charles' face grows red and Max has to swallow about four different Ferrari jokes before they leave his mouth.
"Exactly."
Maybe this will finally make him leave.
Charles doesn't. He steps closer instead and Max instinctively backs into the edge of the coffee table. His knee clips the corner, a dull jolt of pain grounding him just in time for Charles tilt his head like Max is an object of his scientific research.
"Do you get a kick out pissing me off?" he asks, scientific and spiteful all at once.
Max snorts, unamused. "No, you drive me fucking insane."
Especially the overplayed memory of Charles' thin skin on his neck under Max's lips. Quick flashes, faster than a breath, uninvited and too vivid. No wonder he's losing it.
Charles finally smiles again. "Good."
Oh my fucking God!
Max has had just about enough. Why should Charles get to be the only one to flip out. "What do you want? You come here, begging for peace and a minute later you're saying you're happy about making me miserable!"
"Insane is not miserable." Charles grin comes as a free bonus.
"You would know something about that."
"Happy to teach you," Charles states, eyes deadlocked. "Maybe it would bring back the fun Max."
Max tries to pace himself with a deep breath. "You can't just order me around so that I fit into your idea of reality."
Charles scoffs, mocking him. "No? Funny. You folded pretty fast in the bathroom."
Max freezes. That hits like a slap. Charles watches him, unreadable, except for the glint of cruel amusement.
"You didn't even pause," he adds, since Max makes the mistake of leaving him space to do so.
Max doesn't think. It slips out. Reflex he can't fight. Switch flipped.
"You told me to."
He hears it the moment it's out – too fast, too unfiltered.
And fuck, for one breathless second, he feels it. A rush of pressure drops into his stomach. Hot, wrong, electric. He hates it. How part of him feels alive when Charles confuses him enough that he forgets that's he's suppose to be opposing him.
One second. For just one second he lets it run freely and revels in it. Because the last thing Max ever wants to do is admit to anyone, especially Charles, just how much the planet spun of its axis when Charles perked Max's chin up and demanded. Something in him had clicked into place.
He wants to disappear. He wants to do it again. He hates it.
There's a beat – tenth of a second – where the world narrows to just the distance between them. For that moment, the rush runs wild. Similar feeling that ruled before Charles left him stranded.
Just like that, it's gone. Rush quickly boils into something sour. His own skin feeling too tight, too present.
The feeling of failure, of not being good enough, exciting enough for Charles to keep his attention on him for more than two minutes crawls up into every empty space in Max. He straightens up, fast.
Like he can shake it off. He looks back at Charles, desperately trying to hide it all in. The stare off is mutual.
Never again, he tells himself. It won't happen again.
But it already did. And worse, some traitorous part of him wants to chase it.
The pile of his errors is getting too high for Max's comfort. Charles can't just come in, dissolve Max into particles and walk away winning this conversation.
Charles has stayed silent. Looking, examining. Max is not sure if he even wants him to react. That's when Charles' voice lowers, too calm, too precise. Max tries and fails to ignore the fascination that laces each word.
"And you always do what you're told?"
That gets a breath out of Max. Defensive, sharp and dry, like a laugh that's lost its humor. Because despite all of his wishes, Charles noticed his temporary slip up. He does not get to make fun of Max like that. The audacity.
It brings back the fury. The excitement, the urge to fight back. To see how far Charles is willing to take this. Make it seem like Max is winning, even though he already knows he'll spend hours replaying the way all those foreign emotion dance on Charles' face. Being this beautiful should be a crime. In Max's book it is.
He takes a half-step forward – enough to make it uncomfortable, but intentional. But in his head, the ground is slipping under his feet. Still, his expression does not betray him this time as he holds his lips thin and stares at the man dares to toy with him.
“No. But I do love watching you think you're in charge.”
Charles doesn't move. Unlike Max, he does not need to.
"I don't have to think. I just am."
They're too close now. Not touching, but standing like two fighters before a bell. Charles' arms stay at his sides. Max's fists curl, then unclench. Like they're both waiting for an excuse. He tries, desperately tries to keep his inner thoughts buried deep. His longings don't align with his actions. This is spinning out of Max's control at a speed he never agreed to. If someone asked him why Charles came over, his cloudy mind wouldn't be able to come up with an answer.
"You're always performing."
It's a desperate attempt at gaining an upper hand over Charles. It's obvious in the crack of his voice.
"And you're always watching," Charles strikes back, unaffected,
Max is doomed. They are so close, he could paint the colors in Charles' eyes. He tries to save his dignity for one last time.
"Fuck you."
Charles just smirks.
"Say please."
Chapter 6: Please
Summary:
It's a promise: We're doing this. Again. Right. Now.
Notes:
I'm not sure what happened here
The words just appeared, your honor. I got possessed.i
umnow's the time to put the make out playlist on
hope you'll have at least half of the fun I had while writing this
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
If you give up your vices and resist temptation, you won't live any longer. It will just feel like it.
The clock on Max's wrist is speeding rapidly. Every second compressed, vibrating under his skin. He won't be the one to move. Caved first last time. But if Charles makes a move, Max isn't going anywhere.
It's different than in the bathroom. No stylish lighting to cover it all up. Charles hovers painfully close, his lips nearly, nearly, brushing over Max's.
He closes his eyes, because even though nothing has happened yet, despite Charles simply being way over the line of personal space, the sight of him might just about break Max. Because when you're able to map out all the freckles, every crease on the freshly licked up lips, it all becomes too much.
Resisting temptation doesn't mean you'll get to live forever.
The clock keeps going. Faster now. He can feel Charles leaning closer. His fingertips find Max's, who's quickly reminded just how soft Charles' touch feels. In the little movement their fingers make, not even interlacing, in this little, somewhat innocent gesture, you could fit pages of tragic years of longing. At least Max could.
Time seems to be reveling in drunken rush. Max lets it. Speed run through life, for all he cares. If his heart has a finite number of beats, he's burning through them like there really is no tomorrow.
The master of push and pull. Touch and go. Charles doesn't lunge or grab.
He closes in, like a slow tide, hooked on the inevitable, like gravity rewriting its rules just to reach him. Max stops breathing.
Last flicker, final flinch, before Charles finally gives in. The moment his lips brush over Max's, hits like a silent explosion takes over the space they occupy. Charles' lips are warm and maddeningly slow, the kind of soft that makes Max ache, parting just enough to pull him in without mercy. Every careful move is a loud touch, screaming through every cell of Max's body. And Jesus, surrendering to the forbidden, wrong and delusional, feels even better. Like gravity remembered where home is, and decided to drag him there by the mouth. His chest is tight, but it the kind of pressure Max forgot other humans can bless him with.
It's not a kiss he controls – there is no way he could; it's a kiss he sinks into. Every nerve ending crackles with recognition, muscle memory, need. Not lust – something deeper, older, like his body already knew how this would feel before it ever happened.
This kiss starts in the mouth but pulls heat all the way down the spine. Charles doesn't stop to savor it. He deepens, tongue sliding over Max's lip like it's already his, like he has every right. Max gasps into it, and that's when Charles finally groans – low and wrecked and perfect.
It's not careful.
It's not an apologetic.
It's a promise: We're doing this. Again. Right. Now.
Let time run wild. Let this happen. Max's mind is a blank page.
In the middle of locking Max's lip between his upper and lower lip, Charles flips the script. A small smile curls up and while it might have seem impossible at the time, Max's heartbeat goes even higher. It spikes him up and perhaps out of the slight trauma of Charles bolting out the last time, he reaches up instinctively, palm finding the side of Charles' neck like it might keep him in place.
His thumb brushes just under the jaw, where the skin is warm and damp and pulsing steady. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers he's supposed to be mad at him.
But Charles leans in deeper, hand sliding to Max's hip, grounding him with a pressure that holds him in place. Like he knows. Like he's already seen the tangle underneath and wants it anyway.
Max's breath stutters. Just for a second.
Because some part of him still wonders – Is this about me? Or is this about Pierre? About sending a message?
Proving some point in that quietly cruel way Charles specializes in.
It would be so like him, wouldn't it?
Max nearly pulls away. Nearly gives himself that call to get out, that plausible excuse to call it all off.
But then – fuck it. Charles ups the tempo of their kiss and Max is certain rejecting this experience would be classified as a crime. So, he sucks him in.
If Charles wants a performance, he'll get one. But it's not going to be some dull, forgettable mess like whatever he had with Pierre. Max remembers that night too clearly, even though the experience does not deserve it. Pierre, careful and bland. Too slow, too soft. Max had felt like he was pushing dead weight uphill.
He's not going to be anything but that.
If Charles wants a body to use as punctuation in this weird emotional power play, Max is going to make damn sure he's the one writing the damn sentence.
He digs his fingers into Charles' neck just a little more, not to hurt, just to shift the balance. A small, muted moan under his touch.
His mouth finds Charles' again, harder this time, urgent. Teeth and tongue. A subtle press of hips. He can take the lead, now that Charles made him give in. Let's see how long Pierre can stay in his head.
He nips at Charles' lower lip and mutters, cocky and reckless, "You'll want to remember this part."
And that gets a reaction. Charles laughs into the kiss, low and delighted. The kind of sound that makes Max's stomach flip in a way he immediately hates.
"Oh?" Charles breathes, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. "Is that a warning?"
Max smirks, leaning back in Charles' neck – to avoid the intensity of an anxiety-inducing eye contact – his pulse hammering. He dives into the spot that he recalls made Charles twitch. "It's a promise, you dick."
It works. Same sound, as did few days ago in the bathroom, comes out of the throat Max is kissing.
And there it is: the script thrown away. The moment Max commits to dominate Charles. The beginning of a very beautiful, very doomed attempt.
What he doesn't see is the look in Charles' eyes. Not pity. Not cruelty. Barely any hint of some master plan. But a quiet, honest, knowing glint that says: Go ahead. Try.
Max does not notice it, because he's busy devouring Charles' neck. Careful enough no to leave a trace physically, but hopefully skillful enough to leave a mark in his memory.
Charles fits so well into his embrace. He's got one hand still on the back of his neck, the other pressed into his lower back. Shamelessly pressing their hips together, like this isn't two teammates making out.
Max can feel the effect of his tongue lacing the skin under Charles' ear in the way he folds in, in the arms that are resting on Max's shoulders and pulling him even closer. In the heavy breath Charles lets out in the back of Max's neck. So, he goes for it. Slides his hand just a little lower, leaving the comfortable space of Charles' back in exchange of cheekily squeezing his ass.
Charles' body weight switches and another chuckle exits his mouth, richer this time.
"You don't go around making false promises, do you?" he shares his observation, making it sound like yet another dig.
Max narrows his eyes but doesn't stop moving. He grinds against him with more intent now, hips low and controlled. Chest on chest. His hand doesn't leave Charles' ass, doesn't retreat – because he can't. That would mean admitting something's slipping up.
"Keep talking," Max mutters, "and I'll start thinking you want to run away again."
Charles' confidence remains unshaken. "Oh, I've never ran away."
"Tss. Could have fooled me." Max's hand fists the back of Charles' shirt as he tries to drag him closer, but Charles resists just enough to make it feel earned.
"If it's too much for you, Charles, just please let me know. Wouldn't want to overstep," Max says in a tone so packed with sarcasm, the sly ask for consent is making it all sound like a dare. It's nothing but true – it's all fun and games until someone crosses a line and then it all gets fucked.
Funny, how Max does not see that happening to him in real time.
He presses Charles back a half step, subtly moving them towards the bedroom, which feels like miles away. Just enough to feel the shift in balance. The hand on Charles' ass pulls him in again, tighter. Max pulls away just slightly and even though he's almost terrified of it, has to face looking at Charles.
Shameless pride resides in the face of Max's teammate. His tone matching the unbeatable confidence. "Oh, I'm not the one that will chicken out."
To prove his point, ironically, he takes one step back. Subtly dragging Max with him, towards the bedroom. His eyes, the ones Max desperately tries to avoid, dancing with all kinds of light shining in them.
"Well. Let's test that theory." Max says, grinning now, even if his throat is dry. He matches Charles' actions and pushes him one more step, hand shifting over from him neck to the chest. "I'm sure you're familiar with the traffic lights system," Max mutters dryly.
Charles dares to slide his tongue over his own lips. "Sure."
Max does not even try to fight the temptation and drops his voice as he leans in, mouth nearly brushing Charles' again.
"Great."
One, two, three more steps. Somehow Charles' hands made it over to the buttons on Max's shirt, and like his walls, they fold one by one.
"Time to back off ran out seconds ago, Max."
Just like that, Max is shirtless. Still, he does not let a comment like that slide.
"Time for you to shut up was few seconds before that."
His words don't really echo the cocktail of emotions Max has to fight in order to put his sentence in the right order, but Charles does not need this information.
Max is about to fuck his life-long childhood rival. It's happening. It's actually fucking happening.
He's not the first driver in his bed. But it's a bit different with Charles. Always has, always will be.
Charles just hums and doesn't argue. Drags a hand up Max's back, slow, deliberate, knuckles brushing every ridge of spine like he's learning the terrain by feel.
And that should be fine. Shouldn't mean anything.
But Max feels strangely put on the spot. Just... seen. Like Charles is mentally dismantling him piece by piece, quietly deciding which wires to cut.
It lights something frantic under his skin. So he changes tactics. Kisses Charles hard again, open-mouthed, wet, and pushes him backward toward the bed. He doesn't ask permission. Charles' unmistakable enthusiasm ensures him he is allowed to. Max steps forward, and Charles lets himself be walked backwards. Two steps, three, until the back of his knees hit the mattress. He doesn't fall – he sits, calmly, as if he was planning to land there all along.
Max follows. Climbs over him like this was the plan all along. He braces his knees on either side, settles on top, eyes gleaming with the promise of chaos.
Charles lays there, arms behind him, spine curved, head tipped slightly in invitation. But there's nothing submissive about it. He's lounging. Like a king. Like a trap.
And Max, reckless and burning and utterly unwilling to see it, dives right in.
He's done being sloppy. This part is for focus. Methodically gets rid of Charles' shirt, trying to keep his breath straight. He finds the edge of Charles' collarbone and sets his pace like a drummer calling battle: teeth, then tongue, then breath. Moves in a sequence.
He braces one hand against the mattress beside Charles' ribs, the other trailing down the length of Charles' side, fingers curling just beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Charles exhales – quiet, not quite a coherent sound, but Max feels the flicker of it against his ear. He catalogs it. Tucks it away. That one worked.
His mouth moves lower, chest to stomach, dragging fabric of the jeans with his fingers. He pushes Charles' shirt aside like it's in the way of something sacred, tongue skimming down the center line. Every inch is intentional. He's not here to kiss like a teenager, he's here to unravel. To dismantle Charles, piece by piece, until he breaks that composure and fucking moans.
Max noses along a spot just under the ribs, presses an open-mouthed kiss there, and bites. Not hard, but enough to test.
Charles' breath stutters.
There. Finally. A shift, twitch in the hand that had been lounging too comfortably at Max's shoulder. A soft grunt, involuntary, swallowed too late to hide.
Max smirks against the skin. "There he is."
He flattens his tongue against the same spot and licks slow, arrogant. Then kisses lower, one hand moving to Charles' waistband at last.
"I told you," he murmurs, thick with Dutch accent. "You'll want to remember this part."
Charles lets out a shaky breath, one hand drifting to Max's hair, barely grazing. "Cocky suits you."
Max drops to his knees between Charles' legs, fingers already working at his belt. "Since we're so keen on testing theories," he says, voice low, "let's see how long that annoying smile stays on your fucking face."
Charles raises an eyebrow, makes no move to help. "By all means."
Pecks, abs, waist and Charles' zipper open. Max roams everywhere. Structured, careful at keeping the tempo up. Man on a mission.
Charles stretches his arms overhead, sighing as if he's already thinking about Max's performance review.
Max watches him for a beat too long. Charles' hair slightly tousled from Max's earlier attempts to rattle him. He looks... maddening. Relaxed. Like he's waiting for a massage appointment.
Max can't stand it.
"You're not saying much," he says, cocky tilt to prove his point. "Not enjoying yourself?"
Charles smiles – delicate, infuriating. "I'm just letting you do your thing."
Max clenches his jaw. He reaches up, flattens a palm over Charles' chest, and pushes him back onto the mattress. This time Charles goes with it, arms falling beside him like a man thoroughly entertained.
Max climbs up after him, straddling his hips.
For a moment, it's quiet. No snide remarks or smug counter punches.
Just Charles beneath him, half undressed, gaze steady. And Max, high on adrenaline, hard with purpose, absolutely determined not to break first. He pins Charles' hand up. Holds them down with more force that he would use with someone else. Once again, Charles is characteristically amused.
Max leans down, brushes their noses. "Still letting me?"
Charles' voice is velvet, yet dangerous. "That depends."
"On what?"
"If you're still playing," Charles says, eyes studying Max's face, "or if you're finally ready to lose."
"What the fuck is that-"
Max starts to protest, but Charles cuts it off with a slight lift of his chin and a look so disarmingly calm, it feels like a slap. Yet his eyes have this almost calming look. At least that's the effect Max can feel settling onto him.
"Max," Charles starts slowly, in a different tone Max has not heard from him before. It makes Max's stomach drop. "Take off my pants."
His instruction is clear and simple. However, it does carry a weight with it, like he's giving Max a final choice: commit, or get out of the car.
Max doesn't hesitate – too far in, too wound up. Hazy horniness settled in about seven kisses ago. He shifts down and works Charles out of his jeans with hands that try not to shake. His own jeans suddenly feel about two sizes smaller. It's impossible to pin point when exactly he got hard as a rock.
Max receives a satisfied nod. Charles perks himself up on his elbows. "Good. Now yours."
Max rolls of a does as requested. Hurried, slightly awkward, trying to get over this part as quickly as possible. Failing at hiding his eagerness. Soon, he's back in the same position, only Charles is perked up on his elbows again. Resume.
His face now almost touching Max's chest, who's still sitting high on his knees, above Charles. The devilish green eyes have that glint again, and it's like Charles just woke up and remembered what they're actually doing. Slowly, he presses a small kiss on Max's stomach, then proceeds to almost obscenely lick his tongue around, as if there already were traces of cum spread out on Max's abdomen. And just with the thought like that, Max really hopes, prays, there soon will be. His hands rest lightly on Max's thighs, but there's a grip underneath them.
While keeping his eyes glued on the image of Charles' tongue and his excited face, he misses the part where Charles brings his hand up to Max's cock. That's of course until he feels the touch, one that is electric even if it's happening though a layer of fabric of his damn boxers.
First, a finger traces him up and down and the the whole palms holds him, squeezes him, gently, but somehow without remorse. Somewhere along the line, Max closed his eyes again to make the touch louder. It's the sensation of feeling Charles' tongue tracing the skin just above his waistband in combination with the soft squeezes that set his balance off in the way a roller coaster does. He knew to expect this, but forgot just how prevalent the feeling of being held is.
"Max," a soft whisper, voice full of anticipation, calls him back.
Reluctantly, Max opens his eyes. "Yes?"
"Take this off, please. Socks too, we're not barbarians," Charles says mercilessly, as he stays still, just above Max's abdomen, teasingly pulling on the edge of the boxers. If it wasn't the tone that would demolish Max, it's definitely going to be the sparkling, daring look. "Will you do that for me?"
There is something god-awfully dirty about removing Charles' socks. Under normal circumstances, he's throw away few comments about his teammates latent feet fetish. But he can't get a word out.
In the back of Max's mind, he's more than aware that Charles is testing him on something, that he's being pulled in a certain direction. But Max's brain does not want to do the hard work of thinking right now, so he gives into the direction.
He hums in agreement and gets up and makes the least amount of moves in order to get himself fully naked. In front of Charles Leclerc.
This sends a small signal to his dormant brain, which, to help of no one, does wake it up a bit. He freezes somewhere in the middle of settling around Charles again – but it lasts for no more than two seconds, because Charles must have noticed that. His hands guide him, along with an encouraging look and a cloud of calm and control that seems to follow him.
"Just like that," Charles comments, once he positions Max in the same position again. His hands run up and down, over the chest, admiring it with no intention to hide it.
Max feels dizzy and would never do anything to fix that.
"Stay still," Charles murmurs, voice low and warning, like he's giving advice he knows won't be followed and pair this with a brush of Max's ass before he digs his fingers in the flesh.
The smirk Max's surprised jump of breath creates on Charles' face should be reported somewhere. Either the police, or a museum. Max does not know. How would he, when his stomach is dropping, even if it's filled with all kinds of butterflies flying around. How would he, when Charles sticks his tongue out, before he sinks down, next to Max's cock. When finally – fucking finally – Max discovers what it's like to have Charles' mouth wrapped around his dick.
And my God. Should that be studied.
Nobody presumes that blow jobs can change lives. This one might be the closest thing.
It's all tongue at first. Lick of the tip, slide under the foreskin and then circles around, almost taking Max inside him mouth.
It takes all the strength Max has to right now to convince himself that the warmth spreading through him like fire is due to the fact that Charles is his rival and it's all new. It's not because of they way his tongue moves around with no hesitance or – uh. There is another kind of sensation entering the play now that Charles wraps his lips around Max and moves up and down. Max vaguely remembers having thoughts that made sense.
A sound probably escaped his lips while his eye roll back behind the closed eyelids. Nothing apart from Max's dick is able to take in any input about the outside world. Charles moves slowly at first, playfully nibbling at the tip every now and then. Out of nowhere, he picks up the pace, it's probably that what makes Max lose it totally.
In the middle of this, Charles somehow has the capacity, to reach over for Max's hand and put it in his hair.
Max pulls on pure instinct, having nowhere else to channel the the tidal wave building under his skin. His hips jerk, the breath stutters, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thinks he might actually come right then and there just from the pressure of his fingers curling in Charles' thick, soft hair. The fucking audacity of Charles guiding his hand like this is normal. Like it's all fine.
"Jesus, fuck," Max groans as he bites down on the inside of his cheek to stay grounded. Works for barely a second. The pressure is unbearable. His cock feels tight, too tight, like if Charles keeps going like this, Max can't be held responsible.
He'll burn out from the inside. Like someone's taken a match to every nerve ending and told them all to fire at once.
Charles bobs lower, takes him even deeper, lets out a muffled hum that sends an aftershock down Max's spine. Holds Max's hips as he guides him in and out. Max's legs twitch and he thrusts into the mouth that's bringing him to heavens. His thighs are shaking now, and he's not even embarrassed. He'll be embarrassed later. Right now, he's busy clutching Charles like he's the last fucking rail on Earth and Max is dangling off the side.
He dares to look down.
And it's a mistake.
Because Charles is already looking up at him. Those damn eyes half-lidded and smug, pupils blown, cheeks red and mouth stretched wide and slick, owning this. Owning him.
And again. Again. Again.
Max is about to come. Charles must sense it by the twitch in the cock buried in his mouth.
And with a smile – this is when he pulls away.
Max blinks for few seconds, catching up on missing oxygen. Tries to gather himself up from the haze. Waits for whatever Charles has in stock, because that man can probably do whatever and Max will explode.
Apart from – of course – apart from licking his lips into a growing smirk and sitting up. Making it all very clear that he is done with sucking.
No more.
It's like he almost says it.
Max has to consciously stop himself from yelling: "No."
Before he can remember how to count to three, Charles is sitting up high, leaning on the arms that were holding Max in too many places at once just few heartbeats ago. Confused Max shakes his head in disbelief.
Has he done something wrong?
His chest is heaving, his cock still throbbing in open protest, slick and flushed and begging for resolution – but Charles is just sitting there. Looking composed. A little flushed, sure, but nowhere near as wrecked as Max feels. He lifts a hand to sweep his hair back like he's on some runway, not the receiving end of Max nearly unraveling in his mouth. Clearly unbothered and having a casual amount of good time.
Max stares at him, mouth parted, half-ready to argue. Half-ready to beg.
With rage crawling down his spine, Max reminds himself that the man underneath him is Charles, who's probably dead set at making things as complicated as possible. Only Charles can find a way to make sex great and annoying at the same time.
"Charles, I'm not into edging," he states plainly. Why would one ever be? If coming is like winning at sex, then why would one go for the most frustrating route. A brief memory of one of Max's unsuccessful one-night-stands flashes in. Someone managed to get him so frustrated, it turned into pure anger and doors slammed without a goodbye. If things continue like this, Max is happy to show what he's capable of. He knows how to make a dramatic exit too.
Charles wipes the traces of spit from his chin. All while managing making this move hot.
"Sure," he proclaims, making it more than clear there is not a single cell in his body that believes that.
He glances over at Max's cock, leaking with precum. Out of pure instinct, and definitely not shame about being observed so outrageously, Max's hand reaches over to cover him up. He tries to play it up as him stroking himself, which to be fair, he deserves anyway. Charles does not move.
Right. Fine.
If Charles thinks he has the upper hand, if he wants to stretch this out for his own twisted pleasure, then Max will just take the lead back.
Because he's not some soft, pliant thing to be teased and tucked into Charles' mouth whenever it suits him. He's not Pierre, lying back and making it easy. And he didn't come here to play anyone's fantasy but his own.
Pushing back his rising anger, he looks at Charles to asses the situation in more rational and less hormonal way.
Charles is still propped up on his elbows, like some devil sunbathing on a vacation. Still not naked, unlike Max. His chest is flushed, mouth red, jaw gleaming with the remnants of Max's near-orgasm. His eyes are sharp, but unreadable – equal parts curious and amused. And calm. So fucking calm, it makes Max's blood itch.
Max inhales slowly through his nose. Okay. Fine. If Charles wants slow-burn, he'll get it. On Max's terms.
He adjusts his posture like that'll help – sits taller, flattens his palms on Charles' ribs like he's resetting the game.
"I can do long," Max mutters, leaning in to scrape his teeth against the edge of Charles' jaw. "Can you?"
Charles bites his lower lip, one would think to fight a laugh. It's not a yes, not a no. Just sound. Enjoyment.
Max makes a conscious decision, as much as his erection is allowing him to ignore this.
It's infuriating.
So, he moves quickly. Leaves a trail of brief kisses on Charles' perfect chest, all the way down to his hips. With few swift moves removes the last remaining item of clothing and finally gets to see what Charles looks like when he's completely naked.
As expected.
He's been graced with body tailored to Max's personal taste. Once again, illegal.
Max's mouth waters at the sight of the hard cock and even if he wants to keep playing some power game here, he does want to have a taste in the same way Charles had of him. Fueled by desire that quickly boils to hunger, Max leans down. He gets to barely brush his lips over the thin skin before Charles speaks.
"Max. No."
It's an unfiltered command. Max freezes. Not because he's afraid, but because he doesn't understand the rules anymore. The moment Charles pulls away, a dozen questions slam into him at once. Did he misread the moment? Overstep? Fail some unspoken test? He hates the idea that he might've done something wrong, but he hates even more that it matters. He gulps and waits.
Charles doesn't rush to explain. He reaches down and brushes a hand through Max’s hair like he’s calming a pet, not a man with his pride unraveling by the second.
"That needs to be earned."
Charles states it like it's an obvious fact. Breaking Max's brain in half, because it's not like Charles' tongue wasn't all over him not even a minute ago.
The man lying comfortably on his back tilts his head, as if all of a sudden blessed by undying curiosity for live's most complex question. "You keep saying 'fuck you'…" he asks theatrically.
And that when Max snaps.
"What the-"
The mood shifts back several rounds. Back to bickering-
"Max," Charles wonders loudly, "Remember what I said before I saved you the trouble and kissed you first today?" he says, speaking like it's a philosophical issue.
"What?" Max asks, furled, more confused than forgetful. In his not-so-humble opinion, there are too much side quest talking happening right now. He just wants to suck his dick too. Is that too much to ask?!
Charles appears unaffected by Max's reaction. "Be a good boy and use that genius brain of yours."
"Charles – I swear-"
Max grabs Charles by the hips with both hands, but Charles shoves them off with an easy flick of his wrists, stays flat on his back, smirking up at him like he just won another round without standing up.
"What, are you gonna say you're going to fuck me?"
Max leans forward like he's going to grab Charles by the throat. Charles just tilts his chin up, smiling, daring him.
"Yes, you bastar-"
"No, Max. You need to be nice to me if you wanna do that."
Silence.
Is he for real? Max does not posses a vocabulary rich enough to cover just how infuriated he is.
"Max. Say please."
"Fuck you."
He grabs Charles' legs and wraps them around his waist. Rolls his hips forward instead, grinding like that'll be convincing. It's not.
Charles shakes his head. "Not without manners."
"You're such a –"
Charles taps his cheek lightly with two fingers. "Wrong. Try again."
"I'm gonna-"
"You're not, until you ask me nicely."
"Fuck you!"
Charles raises eyebrows.
He's not – he can't – ugh – no.
Lust overrules pride. Tale as old time. Deep breath and eyes shut.
"Please."
Max hates himself almost instantly. Every letter burns his tongue. But somehow, the rush makes up for it.
"Louder for crowd in the back," Charles jokes and this when Max stops allowing this bullshit from playing any further.
“You gonna let me work, or do you want to monologue some more?”
"Of course, mon chéri," he lies back with all the ceremony of someone handing over the keys to their most expensive car. "Do your worst".
Before Max decides on which frown to pick, Charles speaks again, in a grounding tone this time.
"Do you have some lube?"
Max nods.
"Go and get it"
Max goes and gets it.
From the deep bottom of his travel bag.
The act of digging it out, kneeling half-naked beside his suitcase like some horny, eager teenager, should be humiliating. But all he feels is adrenaline. That, and Charles' eyes on his back.
"Start with one finger. I wasn't expecting this," Charles orders and part of Max finds it hard to believe.
He opens the cap and slicks his fingers with more confidence than he feels. Part of him still wants to fight back, state loudly that this wasn't his plan either – but he keeps his mouth shut. If Charles wants composed, Max can do composed.
He settles between Charles' legs, eyes flicking up briefly to check if this is still real. It is. Too real. Charles is looking at him the way in a way that leaves no room for doubt. Patient. Calm. Undeniably having fun.
Max exhales through his nose and presses a hand to Charles' thigh.
"Let me know if anything feels off," he says in a serious tone this time.
Charles smiles slowly. "Don't worry. I will."
Max applies a little more lube than necessary, maybe out of nervousness, maybe just to buy time. Then he slips his finger down, brushing past the place he knows he's supposed to go, heart hammering hard enough to hear it. He circles once. Just to test it out.
Charles doesn't twitch. Doesn't tense.
So Max presses in.
Carefully. Probably too carefully.
No sudden moves, no fucking it up and getting stopped again.
Charles breathes in slow and even, and Max's heart is doing the opposite. Every second feels like a test he didn't study for but can't afford to fail.
"Deeper," Charles murmurs, tone still smooth but firmer now. He shifts his hips a little, welcoming it. "Ah, yes."
Max obeys.
And something about that, about being told exactly what to do, about doing it right, makes his stomach twist in the best, worst way. He's too far along to even bother pretending to question it.
He does not have to wait for the next instruction for too long. "Another one."
And with the shiver that travels down Max's spine, he inserts second finger in. Charles feels stiff at first under his touch, but the muscles appear to relax with every little circle Max makes. He stares at Charles' face with focused fascination. How his mouth hangs open, nose moves with every inhale or how his neck stiffens and elongates.
It's looking directly into the sun.
Max moves his fingers without much thought put into it, switching up depending on Charles' reactions. It takes him all the patience he has to stop his other hand from palming himself into premature orgasm. Instead, he uses the hand to hold Charles' thigh upwards. After few repetitive in and out moves, they share a knowing look and Charles grants him a small nod.
So, Max adds a third finger in.
Charles tenses, breath catching, but he doesn't say stop. Doesn't even say wait. Just lets out a low sound – half approval, half challenge – and Max feels it like heat under the skin. It shoots through him, lands somewhere between pride and full-body panic.
He keeps going. Slow, careful, deliberate. He knows this. He can do this right. And he needs to do it right, because getting stopped again would just about break him indefinitely.
He shifts his hand, angles his wrist differently, and Charles lets out another breathy hum. Subtle, but loud enough to let Max know he found something worth coming back to.
Max swallows hard. The sound Charles makes might actually kill him. It's not desperate, not needy. It's inviting. Confident, pleased, like Max has unlocked something valuable, something Charles knew he would.
That shouldn't make Max's cock throb. It absolutely does.
"You okay?" Max asks, voice cracking just slightly at the edges.
Charles nods, but keeps his eyes closed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah. You're doing great."
His hands cling onto Max's arms, this time for support instead of pushing some guidance or instructions on his. It's refreshing. By now, Max knows this is something to cherish while it lasts.
Series of muffled sighs escapes Charles, before his eyes roll back. Max's chest clenches with delight and some of it even makes it onto his face. Max gets high at the sight. He makes sure to savor the opportunity to stare at Charles without remorse. Rare, but all that much better.
It's reviving something ling gone buried and forgotten. He's in no state to be able to put a name on it.
But Charles speaks, and it slices through the haze like being pulled forcefully.
"Max," he says, quiet but clear. "Come on. I want you inside me.”
Max locks in. For a moment, everything stalls. His fingers still, breath caught somewhere between chest and throat. Because wanting it is one thing – he's wanted it since before he admitted it to himself. But hearing it? Being asked for? That's something else entirely.
Charles opens his eyes, just barely. They don't plead. They dare.
"You're ready," he says plainly, like he's declaring something Max hasn't quite clocked in yet. "I am too."
Max nods, dumbly at first. Then sharper. Like something in him just snapped to attention.
He withdraws his fingers slowly, watching Charles twitch at the absence, at the shift in temperature and tension. He doesn't say anything. Neither of them does. Miracles can happen.
Max swears under his breath and starts moving – slow, measured thrust at first. Still afraid of getting it wrong. Still desperate to do it right. But Charles meets every one with something new – an arch, a sigh, a clenched hand at his spine. Like a protective glass layer slides of his face and he can finally see him.
Sliding in completely fucks up all of his sensory perception. He pushes and forgets who he's suppose to be. The second he's in, it stops being about control and starts being about survival. And Max realizes, in a dizzy, slow-burning rush: this isn't just a simple semi-friendly fuck.
Stars dance in front of his eyes. It's a free fall. He is so far gone. No point resisting now.
Max's hands clutch blindly for Charles' thighs, folding them in. Like if he doesn't hold on, he might fucking dissolve.
"Jesus," he gasps, forehead falling against Charles' shoulder.
His body moves on its own, very easily figuring out a rhythm that suits both of them. It's a completely different language they speak in. Natural, something they were born with rather than taught, and seems like in this language, they find common ground easily. For a moment, he's a mere passenger trying to comprehend how to take the sensation in. Below him, devil is all his glory, taking him as he was created to do only that.
Max thrusts, Charles sighs. Which has Max mirroring it while Charles trembles under his brief kiss on the neck. He's got him locked with arms on each side and it feels like a privilege.
Max can feel Charles vibrating under his touch.
"Fucking hell, Max."
He leans down, bites softly at the corner of Charles' mouth. Keeps his rhythm steady, savoring every hit.
All the nerve endings in his cock scream pleasure. Absentmindedly, his hand reached down to stroke Charles too, fingers wrapping tight, stroking in time with each grind of his hips.
Still, when he rolls his hips again, steady, slow now to change it up, controlled, Charles breathes out hard, and Max hears it. Feels it.
"You're good," deep sigh. "So good. Was not expecting that."
The words shouldn't matter. Max has heard praise before. But this, this feels like truth dragged out of someone too proud to flatter. It lands low in his gut, dizzying.
"Keep moving like this and I'll tell you when to go faster."
Max grabs one of Charles' wrists and pins it to the mattress again, just to feel like he's calling something, anything really. Charles lets him this time, perhaps too out of it to sense just how desperate Max is becoming. Still, his smile deepens like this is adorable. Max wants to shake him. Wants to pull a reaction that doesn't look curated. Like Max is throwing a tantrum with his hips.
And maybe he is. Maybe that's exactly what this is: Max Verstappen, world-class tantrum expert, now doing it naked and fully erect.
To break the pattern, maybe out of spite, or powered by the fact that he is the one with his dick in the ass, Max rebels.
"No," he lets out in between heavy breaths. "This is not some restaurant where you order whatever you want," Max announces and ups his speed. By a lot. The mattress creaks under the sudden shift in force. Rapid thrusting will barely cover it. He keeps going, and going and going and-
And finally, Charles breaks.
Total turbo boost for Max's confused ego.
His body completely crumbles under him. Yet every muscle tenses up. His hands, now freed, fist the sheets. His jaw locked in almost pain-stained expression. It's intoxicating in the most satisfying way.
The sounds now coming from Charles' throat will probably cause alarm if anyone walks by the room. It would probably throw Max off, it he wasn't so fascinated and enchanted. He's the one causing it. Max is the one making Charles sound like that. He wants to bottle it. Replay it. Prove it happened. That he didn't just imagine Charles like this. Bare and wrecked, calling out his name like it's gospel. There is a vague sound of a phone ringing somewhere on the bed, but it stands no chance against Charles' volume.
Max wants to swallow him in a kiss, but he's panting so heavily, it's more like a battle of heavy breaths and moans.
His head starts spinning again. Just like it did few moments ago when he had Charles' mouth wrapped around him.
Charles starts to fall apart.
Max can feel it before he sees it. The way Charles' thighs tighten around his hips, the way his fingers go from gripping the sheets to clawing at Max's back like he's afraid of being pulled under. The tremble that starts in his stomach and radiates outward. All of it loud, devastatingly clear.
"Fuck–Charles, wait–" Max stammers, breath hitching. His thrusts falter for half a second.
But it's too late. Charles lets out a choked moan, hips jerking once, twice – and then he comes, hot between them, slicking Max's stomach. His whole body arches, rigid as a string, head thrown back into the pillow. It's not graceful. It's real. Max can't look away.
He almost wants to stop. Just to hold him there. Keep him exactly like this, ruined and panting and undone.
But Charles doesn't let him.
Somewhere between the aftershocks, he reaches up and grabs Max by the back of the neck, pulls him down into a kiss that's more breath than lips, more pressure than form. It's messy, reeks desperate.
"Keep going," Charles whispers against his mouth. "I wanna feel you come."
He drives into him once, twice. No technique left, just faulty messy thrusts, empty instinct – and comes with a groan ripped straight from his chest, buried against Charles' skin. Without any control of it. Less than elegant. It's overwhelming, brutal, perfect.
His body locks up, then collapses, chest heaving against Charles', both of them slick and wrecked and clinging to each other without speaking.
And then, there's nothing but a never-ending tingle spreading through each and every vein.
Charles' hands are still on his back, stroking lightly now, mindlessly. And Max wonders, dazed and drunk on it, if they just broke something between them. Or created something that can't be ignored. Too complex of a thought, given the circumstances. He chuckles, letting the last breath of pure hunger out.
Max gave in to the temptation and somehow got to live longer. It's not fair. To anyone who currently isn't Max or Charles.
Heaven or hell, hard to tell the difference. Fuck.
Notes:
i forgot condoms existed. wrap it when you tap it. this will be addressed in the future chapters. if I forgot, I'm not surprised these two idiots did too
Chapter 7: Reflections
Summary:
Charles is not the people's prince anymore. And they are not afraid to let him know.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sometimes a duvet can cover more than just skin. Sometimes it hides the fact that you liked it too much.
Charles knows the truth is somewhere on his chest, in the afterheat. In the way Max's breath hitched when he whispered good boy into his ear.
He should be slipping out of bed by now. He should be shrugging it off. One bad idea, adrenaline rush, never again.
Instead, he says, "You know," voice too casual, too breathless, "sharing a shower is environmentally conscious."
Max chuckles, still flat on his back, chest rising and falling like he's been spun in a washing machine. His eyes track the ceiling like he's forgotten what rooms are.
"Right," he mumbles eventually. "Saving the planet."
Charles grins, half-embarrassed, half-high on it all. He reaches for Max's wrist and tugs lightly. "Come on. You can collapse in there."
Sometimes a mirror just reflects back your worst habit. And sometimes, that habit is a person.
He kisses Max again, under the stream of water. Not out of lust, not even out of impulse – just to see if it still feels real. Max doesn't resist.
And Charles – Charles doesn't lie to himself, not this time.
He likes it too much.
He should be running.
Instead, he lets his forehead rest against Max's temple. He knows they're probably late to whatever they're suppose to be doing.
But Max is still a bit hazy, unraveled, so unlike the usual protective mask he wears. Mellowed down, edges softened and so incredibly cute.
Comfortable. Charles feels comfortable.
None of them comment the situation. Charles figures that while they're still under the hot streams of shower, making out is allowed.
It's only once they step out of the room, attacked by the real world, when he starts to think somewhat clearly again. Charles walks slightly ahead, his hand brushing back his hastily dried, still damp curls for the fifth time in thirty seconds. His face is clean, freshly rinsed, but flushed. Barely, but still. He checks the brass numbers on the door. 402.
He pauses. Max catches up beside him, tugging down the sleeves of a rumpled Red Bull hoodie, like that's going to erase the bite mark blooming near his collarbone.
They both stop.
They both say nothing for few seconds.
Then Charles exhales, dry and low. "We're late."
Max stays on brand. Unbothered. His face wearing that public veil again. One couldn't probably even tell he came only minutes ago. "Time flies."
Charles wonders how can Max bounce back so easily, while he himself is having trouble keeping it clean.
"Think anyone noticed?" It's a pretty stupid question, since everyone behind this door is there only because of them.
"I did. You were loud," Max replies, grinning. "Your ringtone stands no chance."
Charles glares, but it doesn't stick. There's a flicker of something unspoken between them. Still buzzing. Still unfinished. But this time it's not the typical aggression. It must be the left over hormonal cocktail. That's what Charles blames.
He swallows a breath, shakes his head, and puts on the sunshine and roses smile. The one that makes it look like he hasn't just had sex in his teammates bed.
Reaches for the handle. Smooth comment under his breath. "Team briefing, nothing suspicious."
Max raises an eyebrow, amused. But Charles is already opening the door. Trying to ignore the fact Max keeps clinging next him.
The chaos inside hits them like a wave: lights, powder, assistants juggling phone calls and coffee. A stylist turns, visibly annoyed.
"Finally. Where were you?" Julia's new, daring, intern joins in, looking like the world is about to end. "You were supposed to be in makeup twenty minutes ago." The doom in his eyes is inevitable.
Charles keeps moving like nothing's wrong. Max wouldn't be caught dead caring.
"-We needed to talk strategy."
"-Charles stopped by."
They both speak at the same time, which does not help their cause. Only Charles seems to be the one concerned by this. His shoulders tense up and he hopes Max shuts up for once. Funny how he always knows what Charles wants him to do – and then goes and does the exact opposite.
"Had to...You know," Charles gulps as lies leave his still swollen lips. "Drop by. Sync up."
It comes out a bit awkward, too practiced – like another PR slogan.
That's when Max swoops in behind him, slow as honey.
"Exactly. Drop by, sync up. Only came for a quick –"
"Max!"
"– talk."
Silence. Whatever is Charles holding hits the ground with a loud thud. One of the assistants lingers a little too long on their iced coffee.
Charles doesn't look at Max, but the color's risen to his cheeks in that way that says shame, barely. He sits down and picks up his phone.
Max takes the chair next to him, legs wide, grin so wide it could power a small town.
"We're all caught up now. Start whenever," he speaks to the silent room.
Charles lets out a breath and flicks to the mirror. Their eyes meet in the glass. The smirk he sees on Max's face is insufferable. So is the way Charles mirrors it.
Game recognizes game, but it's getting real confusing to tell which one of the games is being played right now.
He tries to avoid overthinking it. Right now, he can enjoy the buzzing feeling still present in his fingertips and the lightness of his head.
Dolled and styled up, despite Max's amusing attempts at rejecting wide-leg pants, they're once again sitting in the backseat. This time, it's a Red Bull branded sports car and the mood is very different to when they last shared a car ride together. Charles is positively buzzing with giddy energy. Not from nerves –for once – but something dangerously close to honest joy.
And sure, Max is being Max, sprawled next to him like this is just another car ride, nodding slightly to the music, arms crossed.
Charles presses his lips together and breathes through his nose. The air inside the car smells faintly like setting spray and whatever cologne Max put on to mask the fact that Charles had his mouth on his throat less than two hours ago.
Charles shifts in his seat, trying not to smile. Fails miserably. He feels fucking electric.
It's not that deep. So what, they hooked up, speed running all the way to the finish line. Adrenaline release. Tension fixer.
Except it did not exactly diffuse the tension. Only dialed it up into the opposite direction.
They didn't even talk about it. No time. No space. Just finish, clean up, run. The chaos of the evening preparations swallowed them whole. Then makeup. Then styling. Now here. Heart beat never settling down to normal levels. It hasn't even been two hours. Not even that. Just pretend indifference, like Charles hadn't bitten his shoulder, like he hadn't said Max's name into his mouth like he wanted to brand it there.
He looks unbothered. Careless and unashamed at the way Charles made him crumble with his words.
It should piss Charles off.
It does. But it also turns him on.
The look Max gave him anytime Charles gave him an order is a hard one to forget. The meek, soft, obedient hunger setting in the incredibly blue eyes.
Only now it's starting to hit. Just how dangerously close to sun is Charles circling. The worst part is how easy it was. How natural it felt to push Max's body until it trembled. To watch that sharp, brutal driver melt for him. Max had let it happen. Had wanted it.
Charles had known, instinctively, how far he could go.
And then went further.
He swallows, mouth dry.
Charles is a greedy man about to choke on his desire. What will he do once he wants to have Max like that again? Not eventually. Not when.
Right now. In the back of this car. Behind tinted windows and the protective veil of rivalry games. With the engine humming beneath them and London street lights highlighting Max's sharp features.
That thought alone makes him shift again, too warm all over. He presses a knuckle to his lips, fighting the urge to laugh.
This is bad. So bad.
He's not just playing with fire. He's starting to enjoy the burns. Charles is probably still high from the way Max moaned right before he shot a load up him.
"Max?" he asks and continues without waiting for a response."You're clean, right?" he says, praising himself internally for finding the bravery to ask that question is a tone so casual.
He does not find another dose of bravery to look him in the eye as he waits for the answer.
"Yup. You?"
Just like that. Like it's nothing. Like the man sitting next to his isn't the cause of Charles having troubles to find a comfortable position to sit in.
"Yup," he mimics Max's carefree phrase.
And it seals the deal. Charles wants to get fucked by Max again. Pull out the side he got a quick glimpse at when Max unraveled and let the guard down.
Ever the day-dreamer, the king of disillusion, he let's his imagination run free. Him and Max sneaking around their team regularly. Developing a slow, hot affair, sharing podiums and celebrating bent over hard surfaces. Cherishing each other in driver's rooms. Pouring champagne out of a winning trophy straight into Max's wide mouth. Kissing him while he chokes on it.
Max kneeling in his navy race suit, looking up at Charles, silently begging him to let him suck Charles off into oblivion.
Charles coming all over his face while the crowds still roar their names outside.
"Think they'll cheer?" he asks. Half-joking. Still locked in the fantasy world.
Max hums. "Some will."
Charles smiles, eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror where Max's reflection lives. He's not looking at him like he did at the dressing room and Charles realizes he minds that. "And the others?"
"You don't need them," Max says simply.
It hits harder than it should. Peace is temporary. At least on the context of the current driver duo at Red Bull Racing.
The flashlights start blasting the moment their car parks in. The world outside goes blinding white.
With deep breath in and his trusted innocent PR smile on, Charles steps out of the car. He doesn't feel ready. But readiness has never been a requirement – showing up, however, is.
They walk toward the backdoor, short pathway for them to get to the backstage. Army or bodyguards keeping the crowds around at bay. Still, Charles walks and smiles at them. Starstruck, with awe written on their nameless faces. Those beautiful, kind people.
Supporters showed up. He still has some.
It's like a relief from chronic pain. A breath after too many held.
Then, a slip.
A child breaks through. No older than ten. Ferrari hoodie zipped to the chin. Cap pulled low. Big eyes. Not scared. Just serious.
A guard moves, but Charles lifts a hand. The kid steps forward and holds out an envelope with both hands.
"This is for you. I don't need it anymore."
Charles takes it with a reassuring grin.
Cameras flash – golden moment. Hero driver connects with young fan. Max even smiles, nudges Charles. Says, "Cute." PR jackpot.
Just like that, the boy runs away, as if sudden spike of bravery ran out in favor for childlike shyness.
They keep walking, light-hearted banter guiding their way. Max even touches his arm, like he did in the past in the paddock. Familiarity kicks in so quickly. They might make a good team after all. Certainly does feel like it now.
Charles doesn't open the envelope right away. He waits until they're near the door, just out of range, just far enough.
He pulls the flap loose.
Inside: a photograph. Glossy. Signed. His own face staring back at him – smiling, suited, Sharpie ink stained in.
The signature reads:
"To my biggest fan. Never stop chasing your dreams."
His old handwriting. Messy. Earnest.
The photo is torn clean down the middle, then taped back together, just so it could be delivered.
It takes him a few seconds to unwrap the meaning. First, confusion. Then the twist in his stomach. Then the quiet click of understanding. His expression gets stuck in an unpleasant, sour frame. One child, handing back belief like a broken toy.
He swallows. Once. Twice. Smile still on. But something inside him is already slipping.
Downhill has a rhythm. And Charles knows it by heart.
Mia's familiar face finds him and he immediately knows right away this is just the beginning of the backlash.
A short walk through the sea of photographers and he's indoors, in the safety of his current inner circle. The doors close and he finally let's a breath out.
He barely registers Julia, who's handing Max a piece of paper. "We don't have much time for prep, so here's a quick schedule for you to run through."
The mood in the room is anything but relaxed. Julia and Liam are standing behind Mia, silent and trouble written all over their faces. Unlike Mia, who stands tall and cold. Something is not right. Charles can tell right away. All of them look off.
"What's wrong?" he asks, aiming his question at the two PR people standing behind Mia. They share a look and say nothing.
Mia is the only one willing to speak. She does so, slowly and cautiously. "Charles. This is important. When you walk over to the front door on the red carpet-
"We have a red carpet?" Max jumps in cheerfully, as if he's now also a child. Tone-deaf for one.
"Yes," she reacts and does not look at him. "Charles," she urges, with a glare so intense Charles fears she's trying to carve her words into his bones, "This is important. Look only to your right. Not left, look to the right only. Do you understand?"
"Why?" Charles asks defeated, and ignores Max's snarky comment about having a good side.
Mia is not joking. Something in the stiffness of her face says it very clearly. "Just trust me."
A heavy undertone lies below her words. It's better if you don't know right now.
Like under a cold shower, the reckless afternoon turns into a graceless evening. The blur of laughter, skin, and smugness fades out. Charles wakes up from whatever shenanigans painted the last few hours. He has a job to do. They all do. This is his premiere with Red Bull. Start of a new era.
"Understood," he replies, never breaking eye contact with his most trusted coworker. Liam and Julia just witness silently. Max finally catches up on the mood in the room and for once also stays silent.
Mia keeps ignoring everyone but Charles. "Good. Smile and own it up. It's been a great success so far."
And there is it. So far.
Charles smiles and puts his full trust in Mia. It's done him a great favor in the past. Hands her the envelope and prays she does not ask him about the contents.
She gives him a weak attempt at reassuring smile.
Liam dares to speak for the first time, looking like he's breaking the law. "Mia, are you sure–"
"–Yes," she cuts him off with in a tone that makes even Max stop and stare. "Right. Look to the right. Not left. Both of you."
No more questions. The paper with the schedule for the evening is snatched back away from Max's hands. Another stylist makes last touch-ups.
Into the lion's den they enter. A short walk over a corporate red carpet leading to the old, glamorous venue. Photographers fighting for places and dividers keeping them from jumping on the two drivers. Max walks ahead of Charles, giving out small waves and stopping at his mark. Charles tries to tune out the noise and focuses on his smile and posture.
Not left. Right. Not left. Right.
Stay focused on Max. The one person who gets it. Walking a different path, but in the same shoes.
Out of all the drivers on the grid, if Charles is destined to be hated, he won't want to have anyone else beside him. Max is many things, but never unfair. Blunt, but truthful.
For a tiny second, Charles feels guilty for even trying to play mind games with his team. Maybe there is another way to make it all work, for them to accept him, without any hint of deception.
His heart is beating fast. Max is standing still, like a stoic pillar with impressive jaw line. Charles tries to stand taller as the flashing lights illuminate the evening.
He clings more onto the events of this afternoon. The moments where he was honest. Like he always used to be, back in the day, before he had to learn to be conniving in order to survive.
Charles misses a lot these days. Chief among them, the version of himself he left behind.
As they stay still, like instructed, holding each other as two buddies, Charles finally hears it.
Loud booing coming from behind him – from the right side of the carpet. If his heart sank after reading the note from the little fan, it's properly on the floor. For everyone to walk on it.
It's in that moment he decides he'll do anything to keep Mia on his team forever. He does not want to know what's on the other side. Not now.
They stand for another moment and then Max takes few steps towards the entrance. And Charles, walking behind him, notices the small movement Max's head makes. Towards the left side. Max misses one step, before he gathers himself again. And Charles does not look left. He knows it's best not to.
Only once he's at the end of their carpet, entering the door, he sees it.
In the reflection of the grand glass doors.
Glass doesn't lie. It reflects without fake mercy. Holds the truth up, whether or not you're ready to see it.
It's hard to make it out at first, just a swirl of color and motion behind his own tired posture. But it sharpens. A sea of massive signs, posters with his own face, held up by a group of fans being kept back from the venue, stationed on the street nearby. Most likely as close as legally possible. But the red posters are big enough. Big enough to drown out anything else.
He knows these pictures well enough. His mouth is open in some of them – singing the anthem, maybe. Mid-smile in another. Frozen in pride, in youth. Wins, podiums, moments of grace. The kinds of pictures fans used to print to show love. Now it's all vandalized. His eyes are crossed out in thick black lines.
In every single one.
And the chant, the booing, becomes clear as day.
"Il Traditore. Il Traditore. Il Traditore."
He stands still, too long.
He's not sure what he expected. Not forgiveness. But not this. This feels too final. Too collective. Like they held a meeting and voted to excommunicate him. And he can't find a word to his defense.
He steps inside. No way back now.
It echoes down the marble corridor, even though the doors are thick and the walls are lined with soundproofing. Somehow, it gets through. Or maybe it's just in his head now.
Max is waiting a few steps ahead, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he's already watching a different movie.
He turns and their eyes meet. For a moment, Max serves as a grounding point. Carrying solace that Charles desperately seeks.
They stand in silence, in stillness, despite other people rushing around them. If they had done just that, the evening might have taken a different turn.
Then Max kills whatever safety net is forming – with just a few words and a half-grin:"You should've looked left. Might've signed a few autographs."
The joke hits like a slap. Off-key.
Charles doesn't answer. The last straw invites the quietest copying mechanism Charles keeps in his arsenal. His least favorite one. Numbness.
Just stops and lingers, as if the words never reach his eardrums. Ignores the reality that in fact his words traveled somewhere deep within and will probably take up permanent residence. Like Max is just white noise, not a person. Like none of them are.
Just like that, the illusion of safety is gone. He stares into Max's blue eyes and sees nothing back, devoid of any understanding or connection. Pleasure must have clouded Charles' mind into thinking Max cares. But it does not matter what one says when tangled in the bed sheets in between moans.
It was just sex.
This evening is just work.
Fairy tales don't exist. Happy endings are temporary.
He walks pass him wordlessly, head held high, tight smile keeping the tears locked in for later. If not even Max can't find the sympathy for him, nobody in this room will.
For too long he had been loved unconditionally. Got used to the waves of sympathy that followed every hard moment in his career. The only price being staying still and not leaving a sinking ship. They expected him to carry to weight until the end of his days. He couldn't accept that.
There is no way back for Charles. Someone new will take his martyr place.
The world of Ferrari has to die in his heart. Even if he has to kill the part of himself that he loved the most.
Maybe he was born to be their hero. Perhaps he failed at that too. Just like at securing the title.
The guests at the corporate gala do a great job at pretending like the crowd outside is just a fever dream. Locked in an aquarium where problems don't exist.
It's all a blur. His big night lost away to the echoes of the hate outdoors. Christian has an opening speech. Charles and Max uncover the new livery. Then they're sat at two chairs strongly resembling modern renditions of thrones. The interviewer cracks a joke about the prince campaign. It kills. The audience laughs. Charles does too, on cue. The sound is foreign in his mouth, leaving the taste of betrayal on his tongue. As if the phrase "let them eat cake" aimed at those who used to love him the most isn't making him want to crawl out of his skin.
Il Traditore.
He can't pinpoint why he's so affected. It's not the first time he's receiving hate. But maybe, it's the first part of him thinks he deserves it. He's standing in the center of Red Bull axis. The rival team. It's all spinning around him, with him.
Later, when the guests begin to thin and the flashbulbs have dulled to a hum, Liam catches him by the drinks table. His voice is low, meant to sound like a compliment.
"You handled it well. The crowd. Even Max, he's like a changed man."
Charles smiles. The fake kind.
"Thanks."
He's not sure what Liam means by handled. Endured? Contained? Silenced?
"You're a pro at this," Liam adds.
Like it's a good thing.
Charles nods, but his throat tastes like smoke.
He requests a separate taxi to the trip back to the hotel. Under the excuse of staying later than Max. Which probably does not sound suspicious. He makes sure to wait until Max is sitting in the car to ask for this, giving him no option to react.
He's hoping the crowd outside will thin. Or lose interest. Or forget he exists.
It hits him right then and there. As he finally exits the damn building.
Even if, by some miracle, he wins – beats Max, the others, the odds – it won't be the same. Nothing will ever feel like Monaco in red.
He is never going to win with Ferrari again. Not even if this year is finally their year.
He gave up. Betrayed them all. The hate is more than justified. For a moment he fights the urge to join the roaring crowd.
Il Traditore.
Lesser actor would have cried on the spot. Charles is skilled enough to save that for later. Post the mandatory check-in, full of undesired advice from Horner.
After he debriefs with Mia on the phone and before he calls to his mother.
There are times Max is too witty for his own good.
"You should've looked left. Might've signed a few autographs."
It's suppose to be a joke. Something to take away the meaning from the outrageous act of some losers having enough time on their hands to go and pull a stunt like that. Max doesn't think much before he utters the words. He probably should have. But Max hasn't caught on yet. He never does, until it's too late.
He won't admit it, but even he got a bit shocked at the visuality of the hate poured on Charles. Max has had death threats, just like any other driver, plus strangers flipping him off and rival fans screaming during his national anthem. However, he can't recall seeing his own face with crossed out eyes in such a coordinated way, like the people standing just one glass door away. Charles' greatest moments torn apart by an angry mod.
Dare he say he's almost impressed. While he's busy analyzing what just happened, he misses the exit entirely.
Like with a flick of a magic wand, Charles transforms. The blushing young guy who had Max almost begging and liking it, gone. Suddenly, a cold ridden man with unreadable expression is back at the stage. Ready to perform. To have it all.
Max panics on the inside, but stays still on surface. Before he can say anything to rectify the situation, Charles is gone. Mingling at the gala, smiling at the right people. Making small talk by the buffet. Avoiding Max as humanly possible.
Which is not a thing that Max handles well. Definitely not when he's still not recovered emotionally after their afternoon. Max needs time. To catch up. To figure out when exactly the kiss turned into a cold shoulder. It’s all moving too fast.
So, he opts for whichever he thinks will make Charles happy. Just like him, he politely works the crowd, does not cause a scene or protests. He's careful with his sarcastic remarks and even crafts up a smile when they get to pull the lively together.
Nothing. Charles sees through him. Like he's not there. Or worse – like he's in the way. Max simmers in quiet panic the whole evening.
And then gets the privilege of staying boiling with own thoughts alone, in the taxi. A-fucking-mazing.
He's pacing dumbly around the room when he calls Charles. While it's hardly the appropriate hour for a work call, it definitely is still early enough for "friends with benefits", if Max dares to put a name on the situation.
He just wants to check in. Apologize for the bad joke. Ask if there is anything he can do to help.
The call is sent directly into voicemail.
When Max texts in the morning that there is a slot open for them to potentially fly out earlier than in the late afternoon, as previously scheduled, he's not lying. But definitely severely underplaying the situation. Open slot in this case being Max having to "Karen his way out" to get this option with his pilot and the poor assistant booking flight slots on airports as busy as the ones around London.
Charles wasn't speaking to him yesterday after the gala debacle. Max fucked up. Massively. It took him quite some time of overthinking to accept that "It was just a joke. One sentence," is not a valid argument in his favor.
He couldn't just sit still, so he figured – get Charles out. Fast. Back to safety. To something familiar. To spend most time as possible with his loved ones.
That's why there were now nearly ten people waiting on Charles' reply, with Max pioneering this train.
Max decided very early on not question this sudden urge to help Charles with the aftermath of the horrid evening. If he did, he might spiral and realize thing he does not want to be realizing at the moment.
His text sits unanswered for almost an hour, when the ding finally comes.
09:37 AM - Charles
Actually, I'm gonna stay in London a bit longer.
Appreciate you asking though.
Max's jaw tightens.
Longer? In this city? After that night?
09:39 AM - Max
Sure.
So we're keeping the original flight then?
He doesn't add it took a small army to arrange it. Or figured you'd want to be anywhere but here. Or just say yes, please, and I'll stop overthinking everything.
09:46 AM - Charles
No.
You should go ahead without me. I'll make my own arrangements later.
There's a long pause after that.
Max doesn't respond right away. Can't.
He scrolls back up like maybe he misread something. Reads the three-message arc again: polite, detached, final.
He was stupid enough to think maybe after last night, they'd –
No. He was just stupid.
His brain is sprinting through possible meanings, none of them good.
He doesn't want to fly with you.
He doesn't want to be near you.
There's probably someone else who can comfort him better.
Some old friend. Some new one. Some warm body with a lighter past and no complicated history. Someone who won’t make him feel confused or compromised.
Max wipes a hand over his face and laughs under his breath. Bitter, dry.
Jesus Christ. What the fuck is he doing?
10:08 AM - Max
Alright.
Safe travels whenever.
He doesn't know why he adds the last part. It sounds passive-aggressive and pathetic at once. He almost deletes it. He turns the phone face down. But five seconds later, he flips it again.
No new messages.
He clenches his teeth, rubs the back of his neck, and tells himself it's fine. He's not thirteen. He's not heartbroken.
It's just logistics.
It's just a teammate who decided he'd rather be in a city that chewed him up than sit next to Max on a plane. And the worst part? Max would've stayed. He would've, if Charles had asked. In this city. In the silence. In whatever this fucking thing is between them. He'd have the room service breakfast, watch some stupid pointless sitcom, willingly would sit in an uncomfortable silence – just if it gave him a notion that Charles is okay. Max knows how to deal with hate and backlash. He can help.
He would've stayed, even if it made no sense. Just to prove that it could.
But Charles didn't ask.
Someone else probably already did.
Just another bruise. He'll drive through it. Use this as a fuel for his sim race later on in the evening.
He sends a confirmation to his assistant regarding the earlier time slot.
Charles lies in bed, his room service breakfast untouched. He does not feel guilty about turning Max's offer down. After all, the person he needs to protect the most is himself.
He can't go home. Not to Monaco, not to his Ferrari laced apartment. Certainly not to the hotel room he keeps booked out since Christmas.
London is cruel, but less than the alternative. In two days, he'll be back at his new second home in Milton Keynes anyway. Who knows. He might leave to go there today.
It does not make that much of a difference if he rots in here or there.
Notes:
missed a week in updating
life got a little too loudin days like these, i wouldn't recommend anyone to take up writing as a hobby. it's annoying how prophetic it can get
Chapter 8: Depth of Field
Summary:
Give Charles a camera as an excuse to hang out with Max...And he will use it.
Notes:
i've decided the dutch language does not need my butchering, so there is heavy use of italics in a phone call scene. you'll figure it out
i'd also like to issue my formal apologies to milton keynes...i'm sure it's not this bad
Chapter Text
"Next time we do a campaign, we really gotta check if there's anything remotely close the slogan in Taylor Swift's discography," Liam says, as he stares profoundly at the big screen in front of them. Julia is here just get his intel on social media activity.
Charles is there to probably serve some kind of sentence for some sort of crime he forgot he committed.
Monday at Milton Keynes. PR catch up.
Mia fails on containing her laugh, which earns her a stern, but somewhat amused look from Charles. He shakes his head like it's an order and in return, she tries to mask her laugh as a cough.
It takes all the mental strength he has in order to not start biting his nails.
Few weeks ago, this all would have been fine. He'd probably laugh too. But after knowing what Max's cum tastes like, it's a bit jarring experience to look at ten or more edits from the enthusiastic Lestappen online community, one after another. The current trend being editing their longing looks, as Liam put it in his introduction, to the the song White Horse, which happens to contain the phrase "I'm not your princess."
Really, they probably walked into this one.
This ain't a fairy tale and Charles is more than aware now. London made that clear. The way everyone from PR dances around the event like it's hot oil, makes it all that much obvious.
Suck it up and move forward. No way than forward. That's at least what he whispered into the mirror this morning.
"Okay, I think we can move onto another topic," he makes an attempt at steering this meeting into something more productive than a ship watch-along. Thank God Max is nowhere nearby. It's getting supremely surreal as it is, without him in the room too.
The next topic on hand happens to be "thirst trap session" photo shoot during their shared work out. Charles stays silent and just nods, there's no graceful way to back out now. If he could, he'd tell Liam to maybe touch some grass. Even though it's literally his job to be this online.
Internally, Charles clocks it as strange that Max wasn't even notified. But it's not his job to protect him. So, once again, he stays silent. Max's choice to ignore this meeting.
Anna will be notified thirty minutes before it happens.
It's a bit scary how seriously Liam and Julia took his original plan to "disrupt" Max's PR team. Mia warned him pulling her into Red Bull might backfire. Might be too late for that.
"So, the Netflix producer and director meeting…"
Max is learning to pick up Anna's calls on her first attempt. It used to take her two-three tries at least. So, in his opinion, nobody can argue that he is not cooperating.
"Why would I care that Charles had a meeting with Netflix today?" he asks, as he sits on the backseat of his taxi and tries to ignore the way the driver keeps putting both of their lives at risk.
Anna doesn't skip a beat. "Well, it wasn't Charles' meeting," she says. "More Red Bull meeting. Charles just happened to be there."
Does this man have nothing better to do?
"And was there anything important said on this meeting?" he murmurs, dragging a finger along the fogged window glass.
"Well, a proposal came by. To spice things up," Anna speaks in a slow, diplomatic way.
Some things really don't need spicing up. There is a reason why people who put chilli in carbonara sauce get slandered.
"And? Does it concern me?"
"…It could."
Max leans his head back against the seat, closes his eyes. "My God, Anna, please spill it out."
"Charles will receive a phone for a month, for the rest of preseason."
He exhales through his nose. "Good for him."
"Max."
"Anna."
Her tone is so professional it's annoying. "He will be recording some back stage, making off style, moments."
"Thrilling. I don't want to be part of that."
"You don't have to…"
"Great, good job."
A pause. He can already feel the but coming.
"But! If you are…You will be free from Netflix spending a weekend with you during the summer break."
His eyes open again, sharply now. "When was it agreed that-"
"In December." Sigh. She sounds like she’s been bracing for this moment since December too.
He doesn't answer right away. Just watches the back of the driver's head as they brake too hard at a zebra crossing, then speed up again with zero reason.
Anna keeps going. "If you participate, to some extent, you won't have to do it. And, the good thing is, unlike with the footage shot by the crew, we will have full editorial over what gets sent to them."
Max hears her talking, but half of the words pass him by.
The obsession with documenting every waking moment of their lives as Formula 1 drivers is exhaustion. Familiar, annoying, like Anna herself.
"So it won't be sent directly like the last time?" he asks, recalling the mistakes of past Max, who just told everyone to fuck off and then had to face the consequences.
"No, after one month there will be a tone meeting to evaluate and see if the editors can do something useful with the footage."
He stares out the window again. "So, Charles is becoming a Youtuber for this month."
"Basically."
"My dreams are coming true."
"Does that mean that you will participate?" For some reason, there is a hint of honest excitement in her voice.
"They are nightmares, Anna."
Silence.
"Yes, I will," he says eventually. "But with the full editorial."
"I believe that's a deal. Also, be prepared for some cameras during the workout session. Bye," she adds quickly and hangs up.
Max stares at the phone.
That's new.
Back at the same stale Red Bull apartment again, Charles opens Instagram with the intent of closing it immediately.
Just a quick scroll. Five seconds. Ten, maximum. Just to check how the last clip from the shoot is doing. That's all.
The fourth post down is a fan edit.
A soft fade-in from black. His face in golden hour, laughing. A cut to Max, cut in a way that it seems he's looking in his direction, even though one clip is from Monaco and the other from Baku. Then: a montage of them standing near each other. Breathing in the same air, Max touching Charles' shoulder in slow motion. The soundtrack is delicate, devastating.
He watches the whole thing. Twice.
There is something mesmerizing about people crafting moment for them. Looking for mundane gestures and putting the high on a pedestal.
His stomach churns – not because it's wrong, but because it's almost right. The pacing, the glances, the way Max touches his neck in one clip. It's precise. Uncomfortably so.
"People who haven't fucked don't look at each other like that."
He laughs. This person has it all wrong – this was way before they fucked. Silly fans. He locks the phone. Unlocks it again. Shoves it under a pillow like that'll make a difference. This is ridiculous.
The narrative is getting away from him. He needs to steer it back. Guide the story. Remind people that this isn't a romance. It's just chemistry. Dynamic rivalry. Years of shared history. That's all. People can still be friends even in the age of social media.
Bored Charles is not going to let this evening go to waste. He's not asking Max out. He just needs content. Shame for the spare time to go down the drain.
He opens Whatsapp. The assignment is a nice detour, good excuse to ignore all that weird feeling in his chest.
Max's phone buzzes on the coffee table. He's sprawled across the couch in sweat pants and absolutely not prepared for this.
06:07 PM - Charles
What do you usually do in milton keynes in the evening?
06:07 PM - Max
Hate that you think there's an answer to that
06:07 PM - Charles
That's not a no
Let me rephrase…What do you do here that isn't hating it?
06:07 PM - Max
Grocery store. Playstation. Staring at the wall.
06:08 PM - Charles
Hot
06:10 PM - Charles
So that's a yes then?
06:10 PM - Max
To what?
06:11 PM - Charles
I'll pick you up at 7. Bring your good shoes.
06:11 PM - Max
Define good
06:12 PM - Charles
The ones you wore when you lost that ping pong match to pierre in japan
Max really does not need a reminder of the time Pierre won something. Especially not from Charles. Also, how does he remember that? Charles' fashion hyper-fixation has gotten out of hand sometime around 2022.
06:13 PM - Max
That's a very specific insult
06:13 PM - Charles
Come on.
I'm filming content. You're helping. Bring your face.
Ah, of course. It's already starting.
06:13 PM - Max
No
06:13 PM - Charles
:)
06:14 PM - Charles
I know you're smiling
Max stares at the screen, annoyed that Charles is probably right.
He types "fuck you", deletes it after the not so distant memory of what followed the last time he said this to Charles. Then just throws the phone on the bed and stares at the ceiling.
Tries to desperately ignore the way his dick got the message and drew a wrong conclusion.
He'll go. Of course he'll go.
Cold shower it is.
Max's shoes make a dull sound on the wet ground as he walks up to Charles' car. Milton Keynes dressed in its best gray.
Max recognized the car instantly – it's one of those that management keeps around the factory for the drivers to use when they're around. He's seen many people drive it. Somehow, Charles seems to fit into it like a main character, not a placeholder.
Automatically, Max heads over to the shotgun seat. As Max gets closer, Charles moves.
He opens the driver's door and starts to get out. Max stumbles.
No.
He's not…no. No way. He's not getting up to open the fucking door for me.
For one horrifying second, Max imagines it. Charles stepping out, smiling, walking around the car to hold the door open like they're in some kind of cheesy rom-com. Giving him that signature bad wink. And Max – cold, unprepared – just standing there like an idiot with his mouth half open.
He would rather lie down in a puddle. Face first.
Doom starts growing in Max's stomach, because how does one react to that?
Humor won't help him, he's a bit traumatized from the last time he made a tasteless joke. But if Charles keeps conducting situation Max has no natural response too, it will happen again.
But then – it quickly clears up. Charles is holding a phone mounted on some gimbal device, moving in a way that seems to suggest he's looking for the best way to capture Max walking.
Internally, he regroups. For once appreciating the presence of a camera, proving a deflection.
You're not special, idiot. He just wants content.
He stays silent, as he flashes one quick fake smile towards Charles and another one to the lens.
It's a bit awkward at first. Max stands, waiting for Charles do give him instructions. But he seems to fully disappear behind the camera.
"Should I–" Max starts without greeting him and points to the driver's seat. Leaves the rest of the question hanging in the air. He must look so stupid right now.
"Yeah, yeah, exactly that," Charles answers, ignoring real Max and focused on the one on the screen.
Right.
Next time, Max will make sure to remind himself of this hopeless feeling that is growing in his stomach. And decline all invites from Charles.
Max gets in and shuts the door before he fully registers the situation.
Charles is already buckled in. And wearing glasses. He's sitting there, all knees and camera gear, muttering something to himself as he adjusts the gimbal, like hasn't pulled out the cheapest trick in the book.
The glasses.
Fucking hell.
The thin metal frames. The slight downward tilt of his head as he glances at his phone. It shouldn't matter. Shouldn't hit like this. But it does.
Max swallows it down, shifts his gaze out the window like it means nothing.
"You filming the whole drive?" Max asks, trying to sound flat. Neutral.
A nod, once again aimed at the screen rather than the real person. "Shame to waste this special moment. Our first time bowling together!"
And the last time.
"Oh, so we're going bowling?" Max pretends to be interested. He shifts the gears and gets the car moving.
"We're going go take–"
"I know where it is."
Well, he's got a vague idea. The aim is to try and safe himself from Charles giving him directions. Something about that idea makes his blood boil.
He's anything but gentle on the car. Still within the rules, but definitely beyond the realm of caring for suspension.
Max's biggest flaw is that he pushes his emotions down so often, that once in a while they explode out of him. It happens more often behind the wheel than he'd care to admit. He turns sharply. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles lean into the motion. Right now, by the way he's driving, it seems that his goal is to test whether Charles' gimbal works during earthquakes.
Max can see the camera turn, Charles climbing into the frame with him.
"Alright guys," he says, voice rising into his influencer cadence – easy, charming, a little too sugary. "Very special content today, because I've kidnapped my teammate, the Max Verstappen, and we are…We are on our way to do some teammate bonding. Isn't that right, Max?" he turn to observe him, with the ease of someone far too comfortable in his own skin. Max panics just tiny bit more and just gives him a nod. Calm, smiley nod. It seems to satisfy Charles. Good.
The camera is now pointed on the road again and Charles makes a weak comment on him being generous enough to let Max drive. Truth be told, in this scenario, Max would prefer the roles reversed.
A bump on the road, which Max missed, and the whole car jumps. Oops. It's hard to swallow the laugh after Charles squeaks.
"Max! Are you trying to destroy the car," Charles chuckles and adjusts his position, still chasing angles. "Or…Is this your version of foreplay?" Charles asks, the words all smooth and innocent, but his voice cracked just slightly on foreplay.
He feels it, of course. The way his stomach does something stupid at the word foreplay. But he doesn't give Charles the satisfaction. He just flicks the blinker and changes lanes, aggressive enough to make the car perfume stick slide.
What the fuck is wrong with him.
He hides his frustration behind a laugh. Better to be perceived as crazy than desperate.
Charles shifts in his seat, adjusting the camera again with a breathy little sigh that Max refuses to acknowledge as anything other than technical frustration.
As Max continues on his overachieving mission on collecting speeding tickets, Charles shoves the camera even more into his face.
"Charles–"Max protests and tries to push the camera away. His tone comes off way less militant than expected.
His teammate is relentless. "If you kill us on some random road in Milton Keynes, I'll come back and haunt you," he announces, body turned towards him, with his trusted phone capturing Max like he's gathering evidence.
"How can you haunt me if I'm also dead?" Max argues and spares him a look in between turns.
Charles appears to be unshaken by his own flawed logic. "I'd be a very petty and smart ghost. I'd find a way."
Max lets out a honest breath out. Amused. That is true.
He doesn't manage to get a word in, because Charles is on a run of ideas."Unplug your phone at night. Use up all hot water during the night. Open all your cabinets…"
He lists it out like a regular race strategy. Angles the gimbal slightly lower, as if capturing Max from a more flattering angle might make up for threatening spiritual terrorism. His knee knocks against the gearshift.
Max saves them by pushing it back into the same place seconds before it causes an issue. Charles doesn't seem to notice.
"Less time on phone is good, cold showers are healthy…Cabinets are bit pathetic," Max teases as he breaks on a red light. "Charles. Do better."
For a moment, they just stare at each other, buried under the crimson hue.
There must be a color of light which does not flatter Charles' face. Red is not on that list. That is obvious.
Charles hums. "Fine. I'd mix up your sim settings"
As if. "If you do that, I'm cutting up all your designer jeans," Max warns and accelerates as the light flashes green.
"What if I start wearing skirts, hm?"
Max wonders what kind of a threat is that suppose to be.
"I don't know, what if you do?!" he says is sarcastically enough for it not become weird. Still, the air shifts. Not tense, just charged with energy. Max grips the wheel tighter, resisting the urge to look over.
"Actually, don't think I'm a skirt type," Charles says, like he's honestly weighing all the pros and cons.
Max's mouth speaks before his brain stops it. "Certainly have the legs for that."
Right. Max, this needs to stop.
He tries to distract the passenger by purposefully drifting into the next turn. Does his best to pretend he can't see Charles boring his eyes into him, that fascinated look back on his face, like he's watching something rare.
Thank God the ride is nearly over.
The bowling alley smells like wet shoes and forgotten birthdays. A banner that says MAGIC BOWL THURSDAYS hangs sadly near the entrance. The fact that it is Monday does not seem to affect the situation.
Max is forced to do a walk-in three times. Once, because Charles forgot to press record. Second, because the angle was wrong, and the fourth take did not happen only because Max pretended not to hear Charles over the closed entrance door.
"This is incredible," Charles says as he enters as well, turning slowly as he's panning for a shot. "It's like Wes Anderson's version of hell."
Max has never seen any of this guy's films, so he does not react. His version of hell includes way more cameras. And just like that, the device is once again rammed into his face.
"Say something charming for the camera."
"No."
"That's good. Keep that energy. Say it again, but slower."
Max actually groans. In return, Charles smile grows from ear to ear.
Maybe if Charles manages to win some sleazy film festival with his artistic pursuit, he might change careers and Max could retire in peace.
They make it to the shoe counter, where a tired teenager with blue hair stares them down like she knows exactly who they are and has already decided not to care.
Charles bounces on his heels, finally putting the gimbal aside. Sparing the poor girl of getting contacted by Netflix clearance department.
"Alright. Big moment. Shoe sizes. The real test of character."
Max grunts and scans the shoes, which look like they haven't been disinfected since 2012.
He hasn't been here since the early Red Bull days – back when Christian had dragged the whole team out for one of his forced-fun evenings. Max had still been finding his footing, both figuratively and literally.
Charles taps the counter. "Size 44, please."
The teenager rolls her eyes and pulls out a shoe size conversion chart. Then she turns to Max. "And you?"
"45," Max says, too fast.
"Liar," Charles protests.
Max blinks. "What?"
Charles grins, all teeth and dimples, and cocky in the way that isn't really cocky at all. "I mean. We always knew you were compensating for something. But this really proves the theory."
Max stares at him. The kid behind the counter snorts and immediately pretends she didn't. This brings Max back to reality and he keeps the comment about Charles seeing his dick not too long ago for himself.
"I will throw a bowling ball on your head," Max says to him, deadpan.
Charles, sharing a knowing look with the now interested teenager, whips out his phone, again, points it on himself, presses record and leans closer to get Max in the frame.
"Guys, you heard it here first – Max Verstappen: Size 44. Hide your wives and your shoe cabinets."
This time, Max flashes his middle finger and pushes the phone down. "I'm going to hide your body."
He knows himself well enough to know his cheeks are betraying him and the pink shades are creeping in.
The teenager does not react, just hands them two pairs of shoes, sizes 8,5 and 9.
Charles, naturally, is delighted by this whole ordeal. Max waits in the booth by the lane, as Charles returns from the snack bar with a tray with greasy fries, a bottle of something neon, and two plastic cups. He drops it onto the sticky table with more enthusiasm than necessary, then slides in beside him. Too close. Their thighs touch.
"I miss Italian carbs," Charles sighs dreamily, like he's in exile, already popping a fry in his mouth. "But this'll do." He accompanies this with a killer smile.
Max's body goes rigid for a second, but he doesn't move either. That would be a reaction.
Charles bowls first. It's awful. Like, comically bad. The ball swirls left so early it's practically a statement.
"Strong open," Max says with a smile creeping onto his face.
Equally bad attempt follows on Charles' second throw. The pins stand tall and proud as Charles observes the sad score board, hands on his hips and head in deep thoughts.
"Huh," he lets out, as if he's surprised.
This might actually become a fun evening for Max. Never the one to miss a chance for a snarky comment. "Bold strategy. Intimidate them with low expectations."
He watches Charles do the short walk back to the booth, confidently reaching for his trusted gimbal.
"Let's see what you have in store, Verstappen."
Max rolls his eyes and bowls a clean strike. Charles immediately accuses him of sabotage.
"You've clearly practiced. This is sandbagging."
"It's physics. You should try it."
"Don't believe in it."
"Explains. So. Much."
Few rounds in and Charles is losing by a mile.
"Confidence is everything," he proclaims, missing six pins.
Max laughs. Immediately hates himself for it. And as he does, the memories of the London launch crawl in, a perfect contrast on Charles' face to what he saw that evening. No matter how annoying happy Charles can be, pushy and unhinged, disturbing Max's peace like it's his birthright…It's way better than watching him fall into a pit of despair and close himself off.
Whatever, or perhaps more accurately whoever got him out of the rut that weekend did a good job.
And that should be enough for Max. It will be. He's a got a full year ahead of him to witness these moments first hand.
They take turns. Max is quietly, irritatingly consistent, no matter how much he silently tries to improve. Charles is dramatically bad, then inexplicably brilliant, then terrible again.
Charles even bowls backward once, just to see what happens. It's a strike. Max stares at him.
"Are you cursed?"
The Monegasque flips his head over the shoulder to meet Max's gaze.
"Most definitely," he replies with a playful, devilish smile.
The glasses. They will be the death of Max.
Halfway through the game, Charles disappears to the bathroom.
Max is left with the tray of fries, the camera, and a moral dilemma that takes exactly 0.3 seconds to resolve.
He picks up the gimbal, flips the camera to selfie mode, and starts recording.
"Alright," he whispers, lowering his voice like he's narrating a crime documentary. "Let's test Charles' perception."
He picks up the salt shaker and selects one poor, golden fry. Adds salt. Then another. And another.
"We're gonna see how long it takes for Charles to notice. That's the experiment. Science, bitch."
He ends the clip and sets the camera back. Tray unchanged. Expression neutral.
When Charles comes back, Max is scrolling through his phone like an innocent civilian.
They keep playing. Max lands another strike. Charles flails and knocks down one pin with the elegance of a collapsing tent.
At one point, Charles asks, "Can you film one of mine?" and hands Max the gimbal. Charles holds it out with one hand but doesn't let go immediately. Max's fingers brush against his. It's a nothing kind of contact, except Max registers it like a punch.
Charles just smiles. "Careful with her. She's temperamental."
Max nods solemnly, presses record, and adjusts the frame. Waits for Charles to walk over to the lane.
In the foreground: the tray of fries. In the background: Charles preparing his throw with theatrical flair.
Max reaches in, salts the fries again as his body still feels the tingle of Charles' casual touch.
It's a steady rhythm of back and forth, interrupted only by Charles making his life's mission to find the perfect filming angle, until Max's phone buzzes in his jacket pocket during Charles' turn. He glances down. His sister's name on the screen.
He answers without thinking. Switching to Dutch is automatic.
"Hey, I'll call you later – "
"No, no, wait! FaceTime. Now. She's walking!"
Before he can object, the screen flips. There's his niece, a tiny bundle of chaotic energy wobbling unsteadily across a living room floor.
"Jesus," Max says, but he's smiling. "She's not even walking, she's just…falling forward."
The cute little girl, all curly hair and wobbly determination, launches herself at the sofa and barely hangs on. Max chuckles without meaning to.
"Okay, okay. That's a step. I'll give her that."
"She's perfect and I will hang up on you," his sister says. Then: "Wait. Where are you?"
She flips the camera back to herself.
Max tries his best to downplay it. It's probably a decent plan, until a loud thud of a bowling ball hitting the pins betrays him. "Out," he says simply.
"Bowling?"
She says it like she's accusing him of murder.
"It's not illegal."
"Oh my God, she's doing it again!" his sister yells, drops the topic and flips the camera.
Max laughs, quiet and breathless. Doesn't notice Charles until he's right behind him.He moves into frame without asking, grinning.
"Oh my god," Charles says. "She's adorable. Hi!"
Charles leans in, close enough that Max can feel his shoulder against his arm, warm and too steady. It would be fine, except Charles doesn't move away even after the kid on screen waves and cheers.
Max pretends not to notice. He focuses on the phone. He does not focus on how easy it feels.
Max's niece makes a high-pitched noise. Charles mimics it. She shrieks, delighted and waves back at Charles.
Max's sister picks her up and sits her on her lap, so that they can both be in the frame. With a raised brow, she asks: "Charles? Is that you?"
It comes out way too cheerful from him mouth. "Hi! Yes, me and Max are out bowling." Max tenses up.
Focused on waving to the little one, Charles continues: "Yeah! We figured we'd spend some time before the season properly kicks off."
His right side now completely pressed into Max, who is becoming more and more aware of his proximity.
Max knows his sister. Just like him, she does not believe in bullshit like that. He can see it from the way her eyes twitch. To a regular observer, her smile would appear genuine.
"That's adorable. Honestly, I'm relieved. I always thought Max needed a friend who was a bit less..."
She trails off. Looks at Max.
"...him."
"Thank you so much," Max mutters.
"So, Charles," she says, eyes twinkling. "What's it like being on the same team as my brother?"
Charles starts to answer – probably something unbearably diplomatic – but makes the fatal error of grabbing a fry mid-sentence. He bites down. Pauses. Chews. And then his whole face collapses like a dying star.
"What the – " he coughs, half-standing as he grabs one of the neon drinks and gulps it down.
Max is already laughing. Hard. Properly. None of his usual shoulder-shrugging snorts.
"Max!" Charles exclaims with the straw in between his lips.
He shakes his head and curls his lips into an innocent smile, all while still fighting his laughter. "What?"
Charles ignores him and goes back to speaking to Max's sister. "Your brother is evil," he complains theatrically, as he wipes his mouth with a disgusted grunt.
Max's sister just watches them both with an unreadable expression. The little girl on her lap is laughing, too for some reason, which catches Charles' attention and they lock each other in wordless conversation or smiles, nods and waves.
"Max. Really?" his sister switches to Dutch again and shoots her brother down with the mercilessly knowing look only a sibling has. Like she can see right through him.
"What? I just salted his fries, what's the issue?" he deflects lightly, but even he can't believe his own tone. Shifts uncomfortably, only to get reminded Charles is pressed up right on him.
The siblings share a silent look that lasts few very long seconds.
She is the first one to break it. "So… does Leclerc still make you want to throw things across the room, or is that stage over?" Serious tone gone, back to the teasing.
"I'm hanging up."
"One more thing."
"I swear –"
"Does he sleep in your room, or are you two being discreet?"
He ends the call with a loud thud, before his dear sister causes any real damage. It feels like his heart might jump out of his chest. Be it due to him being a proud uncle, embarrassed brother…or because his teammate has not moved away and is still glued to Max.
"Hey! Rude. What did your sister say?" Charles asks like he's hurt and happy at the same time.
"Nothing."
Charles shakes his head in disapproval, then finally dives back and gets up. "I heard her saying my name…" he signs out, like a threat and Max knows he won't drop it.
He's watching him pick up a bowling ball and for some reason, clocks in that this is the first time be absentmindedly reaches for the deep red one.
"She said I should film more with you. You're good for views."
Charles throws a ball in the most casual way and hits all the pins but one. Max lets the pause hang and takes this opportunity to check out his ass. It's a minor, forgivable, slip up.
"Really?" he turns back to Max, seemingly disinterested in the game.
"No, of course not, dickhead," he replies once Charles turns back to face him.
"She likes me," Charles says brightly. "And the little one too, especially."
Max fiddles with paper cup, desperate to distract himself. Does it really matter if his sister likes Charles? What good does that make? It's not important for the matter at hand…
"Children and small dogs. You've got the market covered," Max comments.
"I'm cracking on the Dutch market too," Charles winks, badly, and nearly makes the mistake of taking another fry. Stops himself at the last moment.
Max finds himself having trouble deciding what he feels right now. Barely notices when he wins.
They drive in near silence, a soft guitar track playing from Charles' playlist. Nothing remarkable. But Max feels like he'll remember it anyway.
A red light. Charles isn't filming. The gimbal's been tossed in the back. For once, there's no joke waiting in the wings. No push. No performance.
Charles turns his head slightly and looks at Max. Really looks. Max doesn't know what to do with that. It's like getting eye contact with someone mid-dream.
"What?"
Charles just shakes his head. "Nothing."
The light turns green. Max hits the accelerator a bit too hard.
Max stares out the window, giving way too much attention to the road.
He doesn't say that he hasn't gone bowling in years.
He doesn't say that this feels vaguely like a date.
He doesn't say that he’s starting to feel warm in the weirdest fucking way.
However, he does practically rush out of the car in order to avoid any awkward goodbye situation. Before Charles get any ideas and breaks Max in half again, with something as simple as a finger below his chin.
Chapter 9: Paint Me the Villain You Need
Summary:
It all blows up in Barcelona. Oops.
Notes:
my advice to anyone with more than basic knowledge of mechanical engineering is to read this only while sedated
i tried to do my best, but there surely is some grand nonsense here
it is what it is
the plot is the superior thing here
warning: unhealthy amount of miscommunication, typical amount of swear words and typos
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rest of the week is relatively quiet in terms of Charles' behavior, and significantly more intense with regard to pre-pre-season testing preparations.
With the new regulations, the teams are granted extra session in Barcelona. Private – thank fuck – because Max does not remember the last time the team was this nervous and disoriented. It's like everyone is walking on eggshells, not willing to look the truth in the eye.
Good old days are truly gone in the Red Bull factory and their internal tests have been less than optimistic.
Max wonders where Charles draws the patience and optimism from. And if he can go and drown in it.
Perhaps the doom training at Ferrari made him even more delusional than anticipated.
All the meetings, internal sim session, data sheets sent in the late evening flash by in a blur and just like that, Max and the rest of the on-road team are breathing in the cold sea air of a country blessed with somewhat decent weather even this deep in the winter.
The five days of official testing allow each team to use three of those for on track action. To tune out details before the broadcast testing. Grace period for mistakes.
Yet, despite all of that, Max can't help but feel a bit lighter when he's back in the paddock. The unique rhythm of people working together, everyone locked in their own role with a shared goal that lies heavily on his shoulders.
There is something about this responsibility that makes him feel alive.
It must be the smell of petrol and tire rubber that's working Max's brain. It's not like he woke and decided that he will be an agreeable person today. Sort of…happened.
Over the first few weeks of shared sim sessions and PR activities, Max got used to seeing Charles in Red Bull colors. But watching him roam around the garage, in racing suit that might as well been Max's own, talking to people that had spent the better part of the decade dead set on making sure he does not beat their drivers, is perhaps even more mind-blowing than the first time he saw him as a teammate.
The Leclerc effect has the whole garage in choke hold. It's hard to recall the last time all the staff tried to be on their best behavior when a new driver joined the team – and there have been many ins and outs in the last seasons.
Max observes, as people hang on every word Charles says. How he, in return, listens to their instructions and directions, takes it all in. It's particularly pleasant to see him gaining respect before even getting in the car – he's not making useless comments, he's not speaking just to be heard.
If Max were to be honest with himself, he's have to admit he feels proud. The awkward, sometimes hot-headed, distant and occasionally arrogant boy he watched go through the ranks of motor racing world, grew up into a man who knows how to make the world spin around him with ease. Hell, people are even going out of their way to quietly impress him. And he's there, making them feel heard.
Not often does Max come to the conclusion there is still so much for him to learn. His clutch of riding on the high of glory days and broken records, all while he was still barely an adult, served as an excuse for his many whims.
So, he tries too. New season, new Max?
In the opening meeting, he keeps all his punchy questions about the engine to himself. Lets other lead and decides to try and hope. For once.
"First item for today: Flow-vis and tire temperatures," someone from engineering says over the headsets. "Low temps still preventing the tire performance."
Max leans back in his chair, arms crossed, nodding like he hasn't heard that for three winters in a row. Across from him, his teammate keeps his hands loosely folded, focused and calm.
"Charles will take the first twenty laps," comes next. "He needs more time in the car."
There's a brief silence. The kind where Max would usually object, on principle if nothing else. Max could argue – new car, new everything, equal footing.
He doesn't.
Instead, Max's voice cuts in, steady and almost… kind: "Fair enough."
He turns slightly, eyes finding Charles'. There's something gentler there. Something quieter. Mesmerizing in a way only a Leclerc can do.
"Just don't bully the new steering wheel too much," Max adds. "It hasn't learned your moods yet."
Charles turn his head down. Smile crawls onto his face. A small one, one he tries to hide and fails.
"I'll be gentle," he says, a little too sincerely, the French accent sounding so out of place in the Red Bull garage, it makes him even more alluring than usual. "Save the best for later."
It's a quiet promise, tucked in a joke. People around them laugh lightly, but Max feels it land somewhere soft in his chest. His eyes linger a little too long. Charles does not cave out. Lets Max have this little moment without shame.
No one else in the room seems to notice a thing.
Green paint attacks the lungs of everyone in the nearby vicinity and no longer than twenty minutes later, Max gets to see Charles hop into the car for the first time. Legs swing and he sinks in, disappearing behind the halo.
It makes Max stop. Like it all finally hits him – this is happening. Shift in history, wrapped under layers of daily life nonsense.
Charles Leclerc joined Red Bull.
Sure, there's been testing and all that. But this is real, different. It's also attacking a nerve in Max's brain he never though he had.
Seeing Charles in "his" car, a remix that wasn't supposed to happen, reorganizes something fundamental in his gut.
Max catches himself off guard and shoves this idea deep, deep down. Instead, he shift around the chair he's sitting on and focuses on the chatter in his ears. The sound of Charles steering out of the garage cuts through the soundproof headphones. The air, just like everyone in the garage, shakes with anticipation.
Max tries his best to ignore the bitter thrill rushing though his bloodstream. It's not the saem satisfaction he gets when he's in the car. Or when he watches a talented rookie tackle the car for their first time.
This feeling, the painfully obvious knowledge that Max's days are about to get much more demanding, is something he forgot. Time mellows it all down. Briefly, it's like he's seventeen again. Eager to prove.
It's an unpleasant feeling, in the most addictive way possible.
Even though Charles starts slow, leaves the pit lane in a pitifully measured way, by the time he's past turn two, Max starts to see hints of his signature driving style. Heavy on the rear – the exact opposite of how the car is set up on Max's end of the garage. He knows from the meeting notes, that Charles' car is to be less focused on front-end sensitivity than Max's, but under the chassis, it's the same stuff.
By turn seven of the second lap, Charles goes for it. Late breaking, way later than advised.
"Tires are cold," Charles reports through the radio, voice stable, light. "Brakes feel alright, though. At least for now."
He hits the apex and drives through it.
And Max is suddenly not sure if that terrifies him, or excites him.
Someone replies, and someone else scribbles notes, and the dust moves around them like everything is normal.
But nothing is normal. Not anymore. Because Charles isn't just in the car.
He's here.
The car twitches slightly in the first sector, and instead of fighting it, Charles rides the edge of it. Max knows that game. Understands the exact level of arrogance required to attempt it.
New season, same Charles.
The engineer feeds him information about which mode to use in order to try and work the tires. It's a bit disturbing, looking at the temp graph and seeing just how non-responsive the material is. Max had hope aero department cracked the code, but it's clear this will haunt them in any cold race.
Bit by bit, curve by curve, Charles' confidence seems to grow with every turn. Max watches the track out of the corner of his eye, but his real attention is locked on the numbers. The way Charles uses the throttle like a baton, dragging out balance in places where it doesn't belong. No unnecessary inputs or dramatics. Just instinct and commitment and something Max has never quite been able to name.
It's not the quickest way through a corner, not always, but it's the kind of driving that leaves a hint of promise for the future. The kind that says there is a way and I will find it.
It should annoy him. That elegance spiced with the fucking confidence. Max catches himself holding his breath. That grace, so infuriatingly earned. Paired up with a proof. Charles is here to make a point.
"Be sure to avoid the white lines," his engineer advises through the driver channel. That ultimately causes Charles to abort the lap, the car shifts and it's clear he was not ready to receive a comment like that from a voice he barely knows. He leaves it without a response. All of a sudden, the rhythm is off.
There's a slight twitch in the back on the straight – where these things should not happen – and Max sits forward instinctively. The rear is still fighting him and the tires are still miles away from the correct window. But Charles, of course, is still pushing like the laws of physics are just a polite suggestion.
"He's gonna spin," someone comments on the main channel Charles does not hear.
Because maybe he will spin. But if he does, Max has a strange suspition coming from the primal, hot-headed part of his racer brain, it'll be on purpose.
And Max – the sick bastard that he is – almost hopes for it. Just to see how Charles recovers.
His wish gets granted few turns later. He sees it before it happens. The slight under-rotation on entry. The car sliding on the racing line and Max almost screams the word break, like it might reach through the airwaves and do something. But, it's too late.
The rear snaps mid-corner. Bright and uninvited. Like the car had to remind the driver that he is not almighty. Oversteer kicks the back of the car out and it's probably only by sheer luck and Charles' competent save that he misses the wall. By few lucky centimeters.
Max exhales like he's been punched. His adrenaline kicks in and instinctively, his head turns towards the part of the track where the car got stuck. He know there is no way to see it from the pit lane, but his body moves on its own.
Charles is okay, of course he is, but the car is stuck and a safety car is employed soon. It's not like Max is worried about a little spin.
He's somewhat worried about the part of himself that wanted to see it.
Like if watching Charles' recklessness validates his own.
Frankly, it's impossible for him to recognize what his emotion try to tell him at the moment.
He gets of the pit lane chair to avoid having to listen to all the predictable chatter. The only person he really wants to check in with is Charles himself. But right now, there is about twenty people with more priority privilege of doing so. Max is in the line, but quite far back.
Not that he cares about jumping the queue, but he figures Charles does.
When Charles finally returns to the garage – helmet off, hair messed up – he looks less like someone who made a mistake and more like someone who's just insulted by the existence of reality.
There's that stubborn crease above his nose, the kind that always appears when he's thinking through something, rather than reacting to it straight.
His expression is uncharacteristically unreadable and as expected, he immediately heads towards the engineers. Max turns away. In order to avoid the urge to join that conversation and perhaps overrule it, he quietly heads out.
He plans to spend the impromptu break in his driver's room. Distract himself enough to create mental space for his own run. Not every of his waking thought has to be wrapped around Charles Leclerc.
The solitude lasts about ten minutes.
A loud knock is immediately followed by the door opening, without giving Max any time to react. He is caught in between checking the results of the recent sim race he could not attend, and were it anyone else, he'd have few fiery words to throw around about being disturbed like that.
But Charles walks in like he's just come from a casual coffee break. All calm now, hair already tousled back into place, fire suit peeled halfway down and tied loose at the waist. There's a pink flush on his cheeks from the cold air outside, a glint in his eye that borders on mischief.
For a split second, Max wonders if he got lost. The following moment is dedicated towards taking in the fact that despite his debut lap ending in near-crash he looks…fine?
Sitting down, plomped up on the couch, makes Max feel just a tiny bit smaller compared to Charles, who stands in his usual glory.
"Here you are. Hiding away…" Charles presents his idea of a greeting and looks at Max as if he sees through him.
The answer comes with a slight delay. Something's disarming about Charles today, in the way he talks, in the way he's not upset.
"You were looking for me?" Max arches his brows, coming off just a bit too dumbly.
Charles scoffs and drops onto the couch, next to Max, quite unceremoniously.
"Well, you seem to be only one not looking for me, so…"
Max glances at him, then down at the space between them.
"There is something deeply disturbing about that sentence," he comments honestly.
Charles rests puts his elbow on the armrest and curls his fingers below his jaw. Resting, like he's just stuck in the airport waiting for his plane. Unbothered.
Seemingly above it all. "Oh no, send the doctor," he smiles, sarcasm dripping from every word.
Max resists the urge to stare directly at his mouth. "I'm sure he's already trying to find you."
"Well then,"Charles sighs, a little too pleased with himself. "Better keep your annoying voice down."
Max feels like with every second, Charles takes up more space on the couch. He folds his leg up, resting, his knee now bothering Max's.
"I'm sorry, you were looking for me, right?" Max teases, trying to sync up to the same wavelength.
"Yes, to tell you to keep the voice down," Charles retorts, like it's obvious and funny.
He's deflecting and Max begins to see his mask crack. He's fiddling with his fingers a little too much for someone so calm. Max does not push yet. "I was not talking before you came in."
Charles rolls his eyes. "Once again with your "logic". It's getting lame."
They stare at each other. Just a moment too long. And that's when it really folds. This is not a look of confidence.
"Charles," he tries to reason, tone falling down.
"Max…," he denies the invite, voice mirroring his.
Then both turn away at the exact same time, like they might go blind if they keep looking.
Charles leans back, lets his head tip toward the cushion, like this is just another Thursday. Max stays where he is, rigid, hyper-aware of everything and unsure with what to do with his fingers. The soft, bitter scent of rubber and engine grease still clinging to the skin on his hands. Deep breath in. Maybe, Max can manage to not fuck this up again. He focuses on gathering as much information from Charles' face before he speaks again. Jaw tight, eyes empty, lips chapped.
Charles is not okay. At least, not entirely.
"How did the car feel?"
It hangs in the air and then, like flicking the lights on, Charles fold. Falls, without moving or uttering a word. The energy out.
Suprisingly, it only takes one question to strip Charles down of his veil.
"You mean the spin?"
It's obvious in his tone, in the way his body shrinks. His optimism stepping aside and making room for the unpleasant, real worry. He bites his lip and stares into nothing.
It's not nice to see Charles like this. But part of Max is glad that he chose him as a place of refuge.
He does not know exactly why he's making a big deal of Charles coming to him. Teammates talk, share difficulties, work together. Each case a unique set of complex issue, repressed or obsessed, it does not really make a difference. There is no blueprint on how to handle the existence of your teammate. Max knows this. Operates on full instinct and hopes for the best.
"If that's what you want to talk about..." he opts for the gentle approach, fearful of scaring him away.
Charles twists his smile. "You and I both know the spin just..Meh," he shrugs his shoulders, as if to downplay it all. And Max agrees. The spin is over-exaggerated.
"Yeah, but the reason why it happened isn't."
Charles gives him a knowing, cynically worried look. Rare, stripped of any bravado, laced with brutal honesty. Powered by the illusions melting away. By what this proves about the car. About what they're up against.
They boarded the same boat and if one sinks, the other one will follow. New era. Max goes and treats it as such.
"Are they all freaked out?" Max asks, hinting at the door. Allowing himself to care about the answer.
Charles turns his head, like someone is about to walk in. "They are doing a good job at pretending not to be."
It comes out a bit hazy, heavy undertone of a future headache.
Max shifts slightly, just enough for his knee to bump Charles'. It stays there. Neither of them move.
"It's their job. They will crack their heads open to make sure to come up with a way that clears them of any blame."
His teammates gaze is still locked on the door. "I have seen that before."
The words hang heavy and suddenly, it all seems inescapable again. They, the drivers, can go and try and move heaven and hell, but unless the whole machine runs smoothly, unless all the stars align, there is only so much they can do.
Max knows that. He's also aware he can't keep staring at Charles without speaking for so much longer. So, he does what he's best at.
Over-analyzing.
He puts on a lighter tone.
"I think the issue is the thermal lag in the rear suspension…" he says and after some of his lonely monologing, Charles caves in and it sets of a debate, full of wild gestures and focused frowns between the two car-obsessed guys.
It works. Max distracts Charles so much the air feels light again, just like when they used to talk in the old days.
He's almost disappointed when someone comes to fetch them both back.
When there's time for Max's turn in the early afternoon, the garage empties out and grows strangely quiet. Somehow, it's jarring even though this is the way Max prefers their workspace. Anyone, who isn't specifically needed for the session, is an obstacle.
So, a win for him. Seemingly.
He knows this industry well enough to catch on subtle signs.
Something is off.
He tries his best to push these doubts away, get in the zone and focus on the fact he finally gets to drive the car in real life again.
There aren't many things in life that can live up to that sensation.
The roar of the engine vibrates through his body and it's like he never left. His first home, the place where he belongs.
Even after years, this does not go away. They were right – he was born and raised to do this.
They lower the car down and he does not wait for the verbal permission to go off.
The cold air slaps his helmet. The tires vibrate. The chassis sings.
It hits him like it always does. This is it.
There's nothing else like this.
Not the champagne, the records, even the wins. Well, that's probably a lie, but still – his – this machine coming alive under his body is what makes Max feel like a person worth existing.
He takes the first two laps easy, letting everything settle. The tires glide on the asphalt, still cold, but manageable. Brakes screech into the corners. No distractions. No PR meetings. No media slander. Just him and the car, reacquainting themselves after a long winter apart.
And for a moment, it's fucking perfect. He forgot what it feels like to breathe properly until this. He always forgets.
He doesn't need to push yet, just the feel of the steering wheel pulsing through his hands is enough to make his chest crack open a little. New car, new rules.
Lap three, he starts leaning into it. Searches for the rhythm. Late apex here, early throttle there. A small flick on entry just to test the rear.
"Tires and brakes are warming up nicely," the voice comes through comms and small hint of pride is detectable in Max's heart. Charles didn't receive that message.
"Balance should be stable."
Turn four, he takes more curb on entry, just to rattle it. The chassis absorbs it clean.
He drags his foot slightly across the throttle into the long left-hander, expecting a pulse of rear-end protest. A bit of instability. The kind he lives for. That one extra step further that got him his championships.
The reaction of the car catches him off guard. Throttle responds slowly and the steering wheel buzzes.
Almost... buffers.
The fuck?
He flicks through engine modes, just to feel the transitions. It's seamless. Too seamless.
Max frowns behind the visor.
Lap six. He brakes early just to heat up the discs. His heartbeat goes wild, because – because there is a tiny, barely noticeable delay when the braking reacts to his command.
"The brakes feel off," he reports.
Delay on GP's response too. "Copy, Max."
It's like someone turned the volume down on him. Like he's shouting into a cushion.
"Remember Max, we don't need to push right now. Just gathering data."
And there it is.
His instincts scream louder than ever. Something is wrong. The car is fucked. He can hear it in GP's voice. What for some might be an innocent comment, for Max is a a bright red flag. He's been guided by this voice for so long, he can pick up on the little things that creep out without intention.
He goes in fully, not with the speed, but with the dirtiness of his driving. Tries every trick in his book. Every unconventional maneuver this track can handle. The results leave sour taste in his mouth and it's only his sharp instincts keeping him focused.
Does not report his findings further. Because if he does right now, he will fall in the mercy of his growing anxiety.
The brakes refuse to work in low speed corners. When he shifts gears, the numbers on the steering wheel change, but he can tell there is an interlude before the engine reacts, and the worst – the absolute worst – the steering wheel seems to have a mind of its own. In one turn, it reacts perfectly, as per Max's moves. In another it has a strange reaction interval.
"GP?" he asks, doing his best to hide the light panic in his voice. He tells himself he's imagining it. That the delay is him, not the car. But he's never been that good at lying about racing.
"Yes, Max?"
"How many more laps?"
He's not asking because he wants to extend this session. On the contrary. The feel of the car is deeply wrong, maybe several parts are misbehaving, and the longer he stays inside, the more desperate he will become. And that will result in a distater for everyone involved.
This is the worst a car has ever felt under his hands.
When he finally gets out, it's like waking up from a nightmare.
Max does not cry often. But right now, he's pushing tears back, fighting to maintain composure.
If this is what he will have to drive for the whole year, it's all fucked. He will become one of those drivers who missed their career exit and will have to watch his legacy fall down the drain.
How has Charles been able to come in after his session and act so casual is truly beyond him.
Panic fully sets in.
He immediately seeks out GP. Info dumps it all on him – every single detail that he got in, every strange reaction and all the thing that car seems to lack.
His speech takes up about ten minutes, uninterrupted. It's when he runs out of breath when he clocks it in.
GP is barely listening to him.
Has that face on he puts when Max accidentally goes on a long ramble about his cats. Only this time, it's not funny. It's absolutely soul-crushing.
When Max spirals, he does so fast.
He runs into Charles when he's still dazed and confused about the fact GP called an end to their conversation under the notion that it is getting late.
The fuck does that mean anyway? They are under brink of a catastrophe season, so Max really does not see how a good night sleep is even possible.
Charles, on the other hand, looks like he's just come back from a yoga retreat. Jacket open, posture relaxed, one hand fiddling with his phone, thumb grazing the screen in absent motions. Irritatingly, it's the most casual version of him Max has seen in weeks.
"Hey," Max says, voice a little too urgent. He catches up with him in the hallway leading away from the engineering offices.
Charles glances up, unaffected. "Hey."
"I wanted to ask," Max begins, and then immediately backtracks into something frantic. "How did the car feel to you today?" he gulps and does a bad job at controlling the tempo of his speech.
That gets Charles' attention. He frowns. "Fine. Don't get me wrong, it's different, but…"
Empty answer. Max hates those.
"Don't give me this bullshit" Max pushes, fully aware of his intensity, growing with every second of watching this casual Charles. "The throttle, for example. Didn't it feel slightly off timing? Like it was…" he hesitates, "Not fully syncing with the inputs?"
Charles gives him a look. Blank at first. Then it shifts into something more alert. Curious, even.
But not in the way Max wants.
"You're asking me about throttle delay?" Charles repeats, with a voice that's too soft, too clipped. Like he is dead set on making it clear his heartbeat currently runs three times slower than Max's. "You do know we don't run the exact same setup."
Max is almost offended by this useless comment, but he tries to let it slide.
"It's not about the setup," Max says quickly. "It's something more fundamental. Like a response layer. Steering too. Feels…filtered. And braking –"
"You think the car is filtered?" Charles interrupts. A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth, like he's heard a bad joke but doesn't want to be rude about it. "Max, you've driven more laps in this chassis than anyone else here."
Max's heart sinks. "That's why I can tell something's off."
There's a long pause. Just enough to let hope edge into it. Just enough that Max thinks maybe, maybe Charles is about to say he felt it too. That he gets it. That all this paranoia has a partner.
But Charles shifts his weight, pockets his phone, and steps slightly away. Max watches him, the careless smile that used to haunt his days, the distant and closed off tilt of his head, back. Like a ghost of the past.
This is what is was like few years ago, whenever they talked. A competition of who can out-smart the other.
It's a second time today Max is reminded of a feeling he's forgotten.
"Maybe you're just used to a car that does exactly what you expect," Charles says, softly, like he's speaking to a child. "This car is set up to the new regulations...It's not going to be the same."
It's not cruel. But it slices through Max anyway. Condescending in the most elegant way.
Charles offers a polite nod, already half-turned. "I'd stay and chat, but I've got that sponsor shoot in twenty."
Max stares at him. "You're doing a photo shoot now?"
Charles shrugs. "We added some extra with the team."
And just like that, the thing Max had hoped for – the shared knowing, the unspoken, skin-level understanding of a driver who feels the car like he does – it dies in his chest.
Maybe Charles didn't feel it.
Or maybe he did.
And didn't care.
Which might be worse.
He stands there for a moment longer, in the hallway that suddenly feels too wide, and too quiet.
Then he turns, and walks the other way.
Alone, again.
When Max spirals, he does so fast.
There aren't enough walls in the hotel room for Max to stare at.
He tries washing it all away in shower – works about as good as trying to drink up hunger.
After who-knows-how-long of pacing back and forth he forces the idea that he is simply overreacting.
Not that he believes it. Not that it helps him sleep at all.
Around 7:30 a.m. someone gently knocks on his door. So quiet, that were it not for Max's sleepless night, there'd be no chance for Max to wake up because of it.
First, he thinks he'll just ignore it. It's most likely a confused housekeeping, eager to clean up his mess – sadly, only literally.
Since his mind is already on a roll of overthinking, an intrusive thought enters.
Maybe it's Charles.
Coming over with an early morning epiphany.
He catches himself wishing that that's the case.
Charles will stand behind the door and once Max lets him in, they will have a fiery, panic-filled discussion about the horrific state of the car. Charles will run his hands through his hair and pace around…And Max will be proven wrong about his assumptions, that Charles lost his love for racing somewhere between photo shoots and opening PR packages.
He gets up more quickly than he probably should. Carelessly rushes towards the door in his boxers only – Charles has seen him naked, nothing to hide anyway.
And some part of Max, foolish and apparently unstoppable, wants this to be that Charles. The one who feels the car the way he does.
The one who hears the flaw in the silence, same as him. Who shows up in the early morning and more importantly – understands. Who says yeah, I felt it too.
Right upon opening the door, Max realizes that part of himself is truly stupid.
It's not Charles. Of course not.
It's GP.
Max's heart does that slow, awful descent from high altitude – not a crash, but a steady nosedive. Hope burning off like fuel.
GP's face is unreadable, but it's the kind of unreadable Max has known for years – the type that means bad news.
He says nothing. Neither does GP. They know each other all too well now to know this is not a pleasantry visit. Something is wrong and Max was right all along. A-fucking-mazing.
Max steps aside wordlessly, jaw tight, skin too aware of how bare he is. He feels weirdly exposed now. Not because of the boxers, but because he opened the door wearing hope on his face. GP, who knows him better than no one, probably saw it.
A flush of discomfort crawls over him – far off from modesty, but because being stripped down in front of someone who knows you're about to be gutted feels undignified. He folds his arms over his chest.
"Can I come in?" GP asks, clearly purely out of fake politeness.
Max doesn't answer. Just steps even further aside, slow and wary, suddenly feeling very awake.
The door clicks shut.
Max walks aimlessly deeper into the room and addresses his guest, without turning to face him. He feels like screaming and the only way to dilute it is with sarcasm. "Good morning. Came to steal few hours of that so-important-sleep?"
He doesn't need to turn to face GP to know exactly which expression plagues GP's face. Concerned, avoidant and unsure of his footing.
"Max…Before I speak, I need you to try and keep your head cold."
Max leans against the edge of the desk. Chuckles at he naive idea that instruction is going to land. Arms crossed, foot twitching. "You're not here to tell me I overthought it, are you."
He finally spares one proper look to his engineer, most trusted ally. It's written all over him. He's got the tired stance of a man fighting an internal battle. Max forces himself to feel some type of sympathetic towards him.
"No," GP says, quiet. "I'm here to tell you… you underthought it."
Max lets out a sharp breath. Lips tight. "Fucking hell."
Max has seen GP dead serious, but this is a new level. "What I'm about to tell you is something I had to sign a very long contract about." He stays frozen, knowing more is to come and he can't crumble just yet. "Specifically about not telling you."
A familiar expression of pure disgust settles over Max's face. It's not the first time they'd done something like this. But it was always about some nonsence. Never about a car. Never. The walls are closing in.
He shoots arrows at GP. It's harsh. Most probably unfair. But, GP is the only outlet Max currently has. "Cut the bullshit."
"Right," GP sighs and for a moment Max fears he's going to walk out on him. But, he doesn't.
"I will, if you promise me two things. Both of those will cost me my job is you decide to tell anyone I gave you this information."
Max's fingers grip his crossed arms to a point when it almost hurts. "Alright," he says lowly, despite the ever-present urge to scream insults at the whole world.
"First. Since we've worked together for so long, as a friend, I need you to know I was very much against the idea of keeping this away from you."
Words, words, words.
"Well, you're here now. So that probably proves something," Max replies, but there is zero kindness in his words. He values that GP is being honest with him, however it seems like it's coming just a bit too late.
"Okay," Max studies GP' face like he's about to get tested on it later. His eyes don't quite meet Max's – flickering between the wall, the floor, the corner of the desk like they're searching for a softer place to land. One would almost say someone is forcing him to speak, even though it's probably the exact opposite. Surprisingly, he continues.
"Second, you can't tell anyone. They will immediately put two and two together will know I was the one who told you."
If look could kill, Max would be guilty. "Can you just fucking say it for fuck sake."
The room is cold, but the gaze between them is colder. The morning light bleeding through the blackout curtains gives everything a washed out gray tint.
"Max. Please," GP urges, desperation creeping out.
Every second of silence is longer than the previous one. Max does spend time thinking it through. Settles on the inevitable."Yeah, whatever. I won't tell a soul."
"Fine," GP sighs, but it does not soften his face. "Once again, it was not my idea."
"Jesus Chr-"
"You're running a car with a demo engine."
The words cut through the room and for a moment Max is sure he must have overheard him wrong. GP stoic face denies it.
"Wha-at?" Max stutters, slow and mechanical, like his brain needs a moment to catch up. It does. Fairly quickly. "But that does not–"
"No, that does not explain the throttle and all the other things you correctly clocked in," GP says coldly, voice just shy of apologetic. "Must say, I'm a bit proud of you."
Max doesn't react to the compliment. His mind is already miles ahead, making out several disaster scenarios for why this is happening. Part of him refuses to believe this.
"GP. Why are we running a mock-up engine?"
The reply is slow and patient."Not mock-up. It's just a nearly finished prototype. The real deal is not ready. We hope it will be for the second testing in Bahrain."
Max goes still. Even his breath forgets what to do. His blood? Boils.
"Oh my–"
"And–" GP jumps in and immediately hesitates. Shifts his weight. One heel lifts off the floor and taps once. A nervous tic Max's seen before, but only when GP's about to deliver something that can't be unsaid.
Max tries his best to hold him anger in.
"There is more?!"
"Sadly," GP says and closes his eyes. Like that's going to make this all go away. "There was a great worry at the factory that you would fry the engine on the first go. Not so much with Charles, because for him it's the first laps," he explains reluctantly. "We expect him to be at least a bit careful. Also, he needs to learn the real deal," GP pauses and Max swallows, slow and loud in his own ears. "But not with you. They were too afraid of that…So…"
"So what."
He can feel the betrayal piling up like debris.
GP braces himself for the final blow.
"A system was installed onto your car. AI powered performance navigator. Think of it as…as a really nuanced version of Smart Driver Assist they put on current road cars."
Max just stares. Everything is pressing inward.
"You're telling me," he says, each word carved from disbelief, "that I was driving with…with fucking training wheels?"
"It's more like –"
"No," Max cuts in, voice rising. "Don't sugarcoat this. I knew something was off," he point a finger at GP. "You let me drive that car."
The first time he properly snaps. As anger sets in more, he look away, breath heavy and walks few frantic steps around in a circle. Silence swells between them. Max's heart beats hard enough that he feels it in his teeth. He wishes GP had lied. Wishes he had just overthought it.
Instead, he was right. And he hates that. Hates that he wasn't crazy.
His self-preservation kicks in. He's running on full automat. "How the fuck is this legal."
For a second, Max feels like he's not in the room anymore. Like he's watching it all from above. Stuck in a web of amateurism and bad decision that will cause the demise of his career. Because if this gets out –
"It's not," GP states, plain and simple. Meets his eyes, as if to dilute the blow. It's clear as day that despite the fact he shared Max's sentiment, the divide between them has probably never been grater.
Max, quite understandably, spirals.
"Fantastic. Brilliant idea. Risking my career and reputation because of someone else' incompetence."
He raises his eyebrows and his whole body tenses up, as if ready for a fight.
GP takes time with his reply. "Does it help to know that this was my sentiment when they told me?"
"No."
Max wants to punch something. All to avoid letting his pure anger out on the one person he knows does not deserve it. The fight of his natural impulses versus the last rational part of his brain that's still able to work under the weight of this information, is a one he'd have lost few years ago. Today, he manages. Barely. He tries to lean into the logical part of this conversation. Make it as factual as possible.
"Who knows about this?" he asks slowly.
"The mechanics."
Max's heart sinks. This is so undignifying. They are treating him like a child!
GP continues."Everyone from the engine development…Horner. "
Max already knows this moment won't ever leave his memory. The image of his trusted friend, standing in front of him, announcing that it really has all gone to shit.
"I'll be sending them specifically a big bouquet of roses. Great job team. Honor to be part of it."
And that's really it, isn't it?
Doesn't matter if Max knew about it or not. If this gets out, he will wear it on his face for the rest of his life.
"They are promising on delivering the final engine to Bahrain. They can't afford not to," GP argues and Max has to laugh.
Just like they promised to get it into this testing session?
Both of them know well enough this does not work on Max. GP must be getting desperate.
Max grows cold. Dangerously so. "What are you expecting me to do?"
GP's face settles in an ugly acceptance.
"I'm expecting you to take it as an adult. Act like you don't know it. But don't let the state of the car affect your confidence," he says and it's clear he gave up this fight some time ago. Still, he breaths in deep and tries to find some positives. "Your instinct was right. You were right."
Max hopes he can do just that. Because it does not matter from which angle he looks at it – he's been cornered by those he, foolishly, thought still had his back.
After all those years.
Neither of them say a word after that. GP leaves with shoulders hanging low, the weight of the situation only multiplied, not shared and divided between the two.
And Max? He just…sits. Tired, desperate for simpler days and oh-so-tired. There is not a single positive thought on his mind.
The realization, that in this current set up, the best case scenario is that nobody finds out…That he limps around the track in front of everyone and plays the game with them…It hits harder, deeper than he thought it ever could.
Sure. His other option is to drag FIA into this, get ahead of any scandal, report everything and everyone. Leave the team with a bang and skip this season. Because this? This is ban-worthy.
His stomach nearly turns. He almost makes the call.
Yet, for some reason, it's like he's locked in his own version of a Stockholm syndrome. They won championships together. He knows most of the people are die-hard, silent heroes, that push themselves over the limit, just so that Max has the best chance of driving a decent car. Forced to abandon their work ethic under the orders of incompetent leaders.
You're either in – or your out. Horner's favorite phrase rings in his ears like a drum.
By putting this under the spotlight, he's also taking everyone else down with him. And with what he has seen in this industry, the real culprits will lawyer their way out anyway. Some innocent mechanic will serve as a scapegoat and life will move on.
It's never going to be just driving cars around in circles, is it? It will always come with a price. Be it privacy, reputation or clear conscience.
He hasn't showered. He hasn't eaten. Just threw on a hoodie. With the only plan being aimlessly living through the day. The hallway feels too bright, too sterile.
His phone buzzes once and he lazily check the called ID.
His manager. Great. Instead of avoiding it, Max picks up and does not say a word. It doesn't really matter now.
"Morning Max," he opens the conversation with a tone far too cheery. "Sorry for the early call, but there is something you need to know."
It serves like a detonation button to Max's almost contained fury. Another cog in this ugly machine.
Max can't go through all of that again. To listen and adsorb another set of reasons why this had to be done. It's like they all circled around him and waited for the last moment. He's already driven the illegal car. His hands are not clean.
"How long have you known," he asks, defeated, going straight to the point with a tone so firm it surprises him too.
Pause. "What do you mean?"
Max closes his eyes. "How long have you waited to tell me this information?"
"Um," the manager hesitates, but quickly bounces back. "It came in the late afternoon yesterday."
His mouth tastes metallic. Rage rises so fast it makes him lightheaded.
"Interesting."
It's a prelude. Max will let him tangle in his web of words further before he strikes.
"Figured it wasn't a matter that could not last the night," his manager defends and it sounds all too chill, given the severity of the topic at hand.
Has everyone around Max gotten crazy? Does nobody care anymore?
Max's grip on the phone tightens. If it were anything cheaper than titanium, it would've snapped.
"Five-star deduction."
He has to take few seconds to ground himself, so that he stays somewhat on track. "Who told you?"
"I assume you know then."
Max drags a hand through his hair, harsh and shaky. His skin is hot. He's no longer sure if it's fever, fury, or both. He swallows thousand different insults.
"Who told you," Max repeats, more of a threat this time.
His manager speaks, unshaken, like it's no big deal. "It came from Christian directly. He felt like it was a delicate matter enough to deliver it personally."
Max feels the urge to throw up again. The sheer audacity. "Touching."
His manager politely ignores Max's tone and continues in the same annoying, too casual cadency: "I've already worked out a contingency plan, Max, I think we can let this one slide."
That does it. The world tilts. The words make so little sense that Max has to check if he actually heard them or imagined them out of sleep deprivation.
"What?!"
"We will just hire someone else. It wasn't like the relationship was a good one anyway," he says it like they're discussing a scheduling error, not a career-altering betrayal.
"Excuse me?"
The rest of the world has truly lost it. It's clear as day. They are all crazy. Now he wants to hire someone else in place of Horner? How exactly are they going to accomplish that?
"Max, just so that we're on the same page. What do think we're talking about?"
Max pauses. Replays the conversation – and it suddenly does make much sense. His brain is moving faster than the man on the other side of the line, already ten steps ahead, playing out consequences, headlines, denials. The chaos is so loud he can barely hear himself think. So, he stalls.
"You tell me. You called."
He can almost see his manager nodding. "Of course. Well – it's Anna."
"What?"
Everything stops. Not because he understands – because it makes even less sense than before.
"Anna, your PR manager," his manager starts to explain. "Well, your, ah – In two weeks she'll be transferred to the Red Bull team directly. That is unless we fail to find a decent replacement."
Max's brain logs. "I'm sorry, what–"
"Ah. Sorry, figured you knew," he says and leaves space for Max to react. Which he doesn't, because what the fuck. His manager start speaking again shortly. "Well, they are kind enough to let us work within the timeline, before season," he says, like he's not saying absolute nonsense.
If only they were kind enough to go fuck themselves.
Max laughs in the cruel way he can only do when it's all truly fucked up.
"Let me be very clear," he speaks, voice strangely light and devoid of any emotion. "I give absolutely zero fucks about Anna."
It does feel good to say it out loud. At least he gets that out of his system.
"Great, well then, let me sort it out then."
"Please do," he agrees with sarcasm dripping from his lips. Even a stranger would catch up.
His managers holds the line and speaks in a tone that infuriatingly factual. "Max, is there something you want to tell me?"
Another laugh. Yes.
In fact, he wants to shout it all out, so that he does not have to spiral alone.
But the amount of potential lawsuits this holds is rutting Max's brain. The less people know, the better, probably. He needs to think this through before he gets anyone else involved. People, even those he pays, seem to be doing whatever the fuck they want these days.
But in one thing he is certain. "Yes. Call Aston Martin. Tell them I'm ready to talk."
His managers words echo in his brain. Came from Christian directly.
Max can only wonder how much of a planned distraction that was from his team boss. Get his team busy with this bullshit. A perfect deflection. Shine a small flashlight right in their faces, so that they don't see the bigger one behind it.
If it had been undiluted anger flowing though Max's veins, it's now nicely spiced with bitterness. He stares blankly at the floor for a beat too long, before he moves again. It's not clarity. It's momentum. Nothing else makes sense anymore, so he leans into the one thing left: motion.
Both drivers are suited up. Mechanics swarm around the cars like ants on deadline. Tension already buzzing like static.
Max is on a mission to avoid everyone as much as possible. Keeps his distance, because he knows himself too much by now.
If anyone makes the mistake of talking to him, they probably end up on the receiving end of all the frustration he managed to gather in the last 24 hours.
Naturally – Charles finds him. Standing idly, by the back of the garage, near the drinks fridge. Max's helmet is tucked under his arm, jaw tight, eyes low.
Charles grins, casual, voice pitched to charm. Max notices him a little too late.
"You know," his new teammate looks him up and down, smirks and takes a long sip of his Red Bull can, before he makes the fatal error of opening his mouth to talk more. "If I knew it only took Anna leaving for you to start moaning like this…I'd have flirted with her myself last season."
Max shoots him the dirtiest look in his arsenal. Stares down Charles' oh-so-innocent face and curses the gods for granting him this unique ability to hit him where it hurts the most.
So, now he's sleeping with Anna too? Is this a badly placed joke or just a way to truly and completely break Max down?
He probably does not even see it past his own cruelty. The green eyes dance with satisfaction and Max has to use everything he has in order not to break down.
Charles nudges a little further, smirk crooked.
"What? You miss her that much?"
Max is one wrong word away from saying something that would start a war. For once, Charles is somewhat innocent, caught up in a game he does not know the rules to yet and Max does not have the emotional stability today to calmly explain.
So really, he does him a favor by shunning him out.
He tries to leave, before it gets worse. However, Charles grabs him by the elbow and pulls him back.
His mistake to make.
Solemn expression written on his face, the cheekiness going away. Like he's beginning to understand he's miscalculated. "Max, there is still option to–"
"She could've left three months ago, I wouldn't have noticed," he spits. Charles' brows frown in confusion and that's something Max really, really can't be dealiving with right now.
"If you really think this is of any concern to me, than perhaps we really don't know each other."
Charles straightens, the colors fading off his smile.
"I mean–"
Max laughs. It's a bitter sound, short and sharp. Cocky and unfiltered.
"Fucking hell."
Charles holds up his hands slightly, in the universal sign for backing off.
"Okay. Sorry. I thought–"
"Maybe don't try that again. Just stand in the corner and look pretty. At least you're good at that." It's too much, he's aware. Perhaps it's his twisted way of calling for help. Surely, Charles can't be this blind.
The moment Max thought Charles came to visit him in the morning flashes by. Familiar feeling of displeased, false hope returns. He really needs to stop giving Charles credit where it clearly isn't due.
Charles stares. "I was just trying to break the ice."
"There is no ice," Max says. "There's no fucking conversation here."
It lands like a slap. Not because it's loud, but because it's so absolute. The gap between them feels bigger than the garage.
Charles swallows. "Right."
He turns, back stiff, walking away toward his engineer without another word.
And Max just stands there, helmet under arm, knuckles white against the grip.
Well, at least that's sorted.
It's perfect for the narrative, really. Max has to giggle, loudly and cynically, when he finds out. Due to the weather, they are pushing their sessions together.
So when they finally hit the track together, Charles gets a half-baked car, while Max will be limping around like a three-legged dog.
The fact that Charles does not even know is making this all that much more ironic.
Max's confidence, served up on a golden tray for Charles to devour.
Usually, he does not care for the chatter. Of the stupid conclusions people draw from testing sessions.
But this is just unfair.
He ignores Charles, as he gets into his comical gimmick of an F1 car.
Someone hands Max his gloves. He doesn't thank them.
He secretly watches Charles get in the car, like it's no big deal. Hair on point, attitude perfect, probably already composing some cheeky line for crew once he comes back with better set of data than Max. And they will all nod and give him the false sense of security.
Truth be told, both of them are set up for a failure. Charles is just as deep in it, just blinded by the novelty. And yet, Max can't shake the need to play it straight with him, as if it still matters. To the guy who claims he doesn't care what people think. His teammate, who mercilessly scrambled Max's head by flirting with him, and then, apparently turned around and did the same to the rest of the team.
Every move deliberate. Each glance calculated to make sure Max understands: he was never the exception.
Max stares at the back of the garage, where Charles' hoodie stretches over his old seat. A Red Bull blue that doesn't belong to him yet, hasn't swallowed him like the unjust machine it can be.
It will. Soon.
He hears Charles' voice coming through one of the headset – low, focused, not trying too hard. Asking for mode settings like he's just tweaking Spotify presets.
Max doesn't need to do that. He knows what's coming.
He walks to the car without a word.
Climbs in.
Secures the belts.
Radio clicks on.
"Max, your turn. Outlap and then three timed laps."
No reply. Just the roar of ignition and the sharp inhale he can't stop from shaking his chest.
If they want a comparison, they're about to get one.
If Charles gets to dance with this car, Max will make it scream.
//
It begins on the outlap.
The distance closes faster than anyone expects.
The rear of Charles' car comes enters his vision like an unassuming pray.
The first few corners feel like hell wrapped in carbon fiber. They installed a fucking baby monitor under the chassis and the car wants Max to drive like he's scared of the next corner.
The assist system lingers in every turn like a ghost, muting the edges of his control. He tries to shake it – shift sharp, abuse the throttle, burn the brakes. Nothing. It absorbs him like a sponge. Now that he knows it's there, he goes back to yesterday's session and kicks himself mentally for being so stupid not to see it sooner.
He follows Charles and observes his moves.
Max flicks through engine modes again, hunting for even a hint of raw response and the option of a choice. He gets none. Just the stubborn compliance of a machine that doesn't trust him.
Charles slides into the next set of corners with the kind of precision Max used to admire. Now it feels like mockery.
Each sector time taunts him through his earpiece, soft chimes of team betrayal.
The outside entry, early flick of the wheel, throttle dancing right on the edge.
It's perfect. Elegant. Clever.
Max sees red.
He forgets about GP. About the other cars on track. Forgets about the prototype engine. Forgets about the damn assist trying to micromanage his inputs.
That's my move.
The rear twitch before the apex and flies away to the next corner. It's what Max would do – if the car let him.
He grips the wheel tighter, shifts mode mid-corner, again, just to force a response. It barely gives him one.
"Don't do it," GP's voice warns in his ear. "We need this engine to run through the full session."
Max doesn't answer.
Instead, he narrows the gap to Charles' car. Three tenths. Two.
He catches a glimpse of the tail wing up ahead, and something inside him snaps.
"Max," GP says sharply. "Back off. We're not –"
"Don't talk to me."
They fight through three corners. Charles isn't dumb. He gets it.
At least that stayed the same.
He tries to avoid a full-on battle, but Max won't let go. And his teammate responds. Charles holds the inside line, Max forces him wide. Not contact, but close enough to probably cause panic in the garage.
And finally – Max downshifts, slams the throttle too early and too long. Overruns the system. Pushes past the limit.
The engine blows. Loudly. Visibly. Dramatically. Spectacularly. The whole car shakes and send him ruthlessly to the gravel on the left side.
White smoke. Car jolts. Max sits in, silent.
Pride and pettiness swallow him whole. He dives in, willingly. For the first time in his life, the weight of his shoulders lifted by destroying an engine for good.
Temporary heaven.
He doesn't throw his gloves. There is no need to shout. In fact, he hasn't been this calm and satisfied since the start of this pre-pre-season testing nonsense.
Just climbs out, walks past the car without looking at it.
In fact, he feels livid. The manic kind of satisfaction. Has to fight the smile off his face.
People part like they don't want to touch his mood.
And Max feels it – he proved his point.
He knows that most of the crew in this garage are aware of the assist system. Hell, were told way before he even had a clue. It's not their fault, the people who caused this are too chicken to be present on site.
That does not soften the need to prove something.
Don't play with Max. Don't make him your fool.
He will burn the house down even if he's standing inside of it.
Just before the exit, movement catches his eye.
Horner. Half-buried in shadows like a politician at a funeral. Just standing too close to someone else' ear, nodding too often, too politely.
Their eyes lock.
And it's all there.
I know what you're doing.
You know what I've done.
And neither of us can't do a fucking thing about it.
He just leans the weight of all his satisfaction into one word, as he brushes by him, only for his ears to hear.
"Oops."
He's not stopping for a reaction.
People will paint him the hot-head villain. Nothing groundbreaking. It's a role he knows how to play. New season, same story.
"You blew up your engine. In testing. On purpose."
Max is sitting comfortably in his driver's room, once again graced by the presence of Charles, who did not even knock this time. Shamelessly stormed in. Kinda attractive, in Max's humble opinion.
"Hard to tell. Maybe the car just can't handle me."
He knows he's just flying on the high of the fight and the fact he flipped the finger on a team that deliberately set him up for failure. These words are coming from somewhere deep within him, his brain too dizzy to edit them. Fuck it, right?
Charles stands still, hands on hips and that oh-I'm-so-mad-please-kiss-me face on. "You nearly took me out in turn nine."
Max perks up his lips and mimics a kiss.
"If I wanted to take you out," Max says lazily and rolls his tongue, "you'd know."
Charles exhales sharply through his nose, then scoffs once. Humorless.
"Is that what this is now?" he almost shouts, eyebrows flying high. "Ego contest in front of twenty engineers who have to pretend they didn't just watch you throw away half a million Euros in damages?"
Max tilts his head, eyes narrowing with mock thought. "Such a long sentence…"
Charles does not bite the bait. "You ruined my run Max. That's low, even for you."
He is just so innocent sometimes, isn't he? Finds the easiest answer and just sticks with it.
"We could have stayed in England and just drive around the parking lot. It would bring the same results," Max comments and watches as Charles' faith in the goodness of Max's soul leaves his face. About time.
"You looked good out there," Max says honestly, with no added undertone, unable to point the true source of this forwardness that possessed him. And not strong enough to fight it.
"Hot," he raises his brow in suggestive approval.
"Fuck off, Max."
Charles stands there, like he does not know where to put his frustration. Max has an idea. Obviously. He absentmindedly bites his lips, as if to send a message. Watches with delight as Charles flicks his gaze towards Max's mouth.
"Come to my room later," he finds himself saying. And, fuck it, why not – Max wants it. "We won't be driving tomorrow," he argues, voice all airy and confident. "You can handle sitting in the debrief with a reminder of my dick in your ass, right?"
He gives Charles space to react. And when he doesn't, he pushes more. "Or would you rather fly off to see Anna?"
It's clear now, based on the reaction, that Charles was just joking about Anna earlier. Not that it changes anything.
A strange, unreadable emotion sets residence on Charles' face. The closest thing Max would compare it to is fatigue.
"Enjoy your little tantrum," Charles says finally, turning toward the door. "Just don't drag me into it next time."
Max watches him go, slow grin forming. The next sentence he speaks is in a language he's sure Charles is fluent in.
"Next time, try to keep up."
Charles stops and stands still for a long, long moment. There is a second, where Max honestly thinks he's about to get punched. And finds it thrilling.
Come on, Charles. Go for it.
Then, a firm tone sets in Charles' voice, his back still turned to Max, fingers gripping the door handle.
"Text me the room number."
With that, he slams the door on his way out.
Notes:
someone said the whole point of lestappen is the war crimes
Chapter 10: Voulez-Vous
Summary:
Charles tries to be the adult. Fails miserably.
Notes:
i know you guys want these two to talk it out
i'm vetoing thatlet's see what's up with Charles during Max's fun day at work. i warned you about the slowburn
Chapter Text
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
Calm down.
This is fine. This is still just practice.
Charles keeps his trembling fingers out of sight the moment he gets out of the car. Because it's obvious, even from the way his engineer changed his tone when he checked whether Charles is okay or not.
Spinning on the first real try only feeds into the narrative of those who already consider him overrated, no matter what really happened.
This is fine. Usual.
Hands firmly gripping his own hips when he speaks to his engineers. Folded in, muscles clenching into stillness as he listens to their reluctant analysis.
A little harmless spin. Almost intentionally miscalculated oversteer. Well, he might have accidentally learned two lessons here.
It's impossible not to make the comparison. At Ferrari, spins and minor incidents – especially during semi-private testing – were almost encouraged and welcomed. Opportunities to explore what doesn't work, so he could avoid doing it when it counts.
Not at Red Bull, as he quickly finds out. Here, the philosophy is more on the 'try things that we think will work, so that we will know' side of the spectrum.
He listens, provides his snapshot feedback and exits the chaotic garage as soon as possible.
One thing is clear. This team, despite their arguably poor season last year, is not used to handling problems. Brushing them under the rug, only to rely on Max pulling a miracle out of his ass, seems to be a common practice.
This is fine. I can change it.
It appears that Max is the only person holding back his feedback. So, Charles seeks him out. Only after his fingers stop trembling.
When he's the one on the pit wall, watching Max making his rounds, he's not particularly surprised to see him hitting better numbers that he himself had done. This is the multi-world championship winner he's comparing himself too. In his home team.
There is no doubt Charles will beat him. At some point.
Thinking it will happen on the first testing day is a too big of a delusion, even for Charles Leclerc.
For now, it's acceptably... fine.
Max's post-testing word vomit had come out of nowhere. Fast, frantic, and too messy to make sense of.
Charles hadn't taken it seriously. He'd been too focused on not unraveling himself. Now, it rings in his ears the whole time he's posing on the track.
The photoshoot is quick, but Charles is so wrapped up in his own head, they might as well sedate him.
Chin tilt up – Is Max trying to get in his head?
Shutter click.
Turn to the left – The car felt kind of okay, is Max lying?
Shutter click.
Dramatic look in the distance – What if Charles missed something?
Shutter click.
He doesn't check the photos. Just filler. PR fluff.
What lingers isn't the lens – it's the look on Max's face. That strange, urgent energy.
And Charles can’t quite shake it. Max's attempt at a conversation, that is more pressing.
To rectify his misjudgment, he wraps up the shoot quickly and goes back to the garage, seeking out his teammate. From the bits and pieces he's gathered from the crew, Max being unhappy with the car usually means overtime for half the garage.
To his surprise, almost a shock really, the facility is nearly empty. There is even a cleaner already finishing their shift.
Where the hell is everyone?
It makes no sense. If Max was as disturbed by the car: ranting, breathless, anxious, then the garage should be alive with problem-solving. At Ferrari, it didn't even take a driver to hint at a problem. Anyone could raise a concern, and it would snowball into a full-scale investigation. Granted, looking back at it, it often lead into many people running in circles for hours.
Red Bull, on the other hand, apparently… takes the night off. He sighs into the sterile silence. There were so many things nobody warned him about a team shift.
He adjusts the collar of his suit and steps further in, boots clicking across the concrete.
He lowers himself to the floor and lets himself stop for the first time in weeks – just to feel the weight of what he's done, what he's left behind.
There used to be a plan. Life long mission.
He threw it out the window, and now he's left to face the aimlessness alone.
Too much of his attention has gotten into the PR aspect of his move. Building the unshakable persona. In truth, he's terrified. Right now, he is behind a protective wall of the private 'no cameras' testing. But this is the last time.
Soon, he'll face the crowds again and for once he has no idea what the consensus will be. It's one thing to read projections and prep notes in a PR meeting. It's another to stand in front of a crowd and hear the chants for yourself.
Il Traditore.
It still rings.
Maybe it's time to leave it to the team and step away for a bit. Phase two.
Somewhere between the spin, the fans, and the strange, coiled thing growing between him and Max, that old hum of anxiety started to rise up again. Uninvited, but familiar.
It's all blurring together now. The car, the silence in the garage, the tight smile Max gave him like they were strangers again.
He can't tell anymore if the tension between them is tactical, personal, or something he should've shut down before it started. This strange dynamic with Max – whatever it even is – has already gotten too complicated.
Perhaps it's time to tame that up too. But not in the way his body has been wishing ever since the accidental make out in the bathroom. He had probably given up sweeter temptations, in his chase for the title, before.
Max will soon become his biggest nightmare. And the only one playing the game with the same set of cards. Teammate relationship is important. It's never good if they sleep with each other. Charles has heard rumors and whispers of that happening and ending in flames. Hopefully, they won't become one of the urban stories too.
Time to say goodbye to him and Max fooling around again.
He lets to ground cool his body as he stares at ceiling. It's a thing he's been doing since he was a child. In a moment of uncertainty, he would turn his head up and imagine the ceiling and the ground switched positions. He'd wonder how his feet would move across the fluorescent panels, if he'd trip over the pipes, if the lights would burn his ankles as he walked. A private, absurd trick to remind himself that things aren't set in stone. That there's always another angle.
He remembers hating Max once. Far from the casual teenage dislike. No, that pure chest-burning, stomach-souring loathing.
It was in karting, some no-stakes race that felt like the Olympics at the time. Max overtook him on a corner Charles had spent ten laps defending. Clean, brutal, effortless.
Charles had cried after. Not because of the move, but because Max looked at him afterward with that face, that expression like it was inevitable. Like Charles had wasted everyone's time trying to fight it.
He couldn't stand him after that.
Sure, the inchident is a cute meme today. Back then? It was just a typical weekend for these two. None of the other drivers was ever quite like Max.
He lets the memory settle. Tries to laugh at it, but it doesn't come. Just sits there, present and loud.
He rubs the edge of his jaw, fingers tracing the faint line where his helmet usually presses.
Still wired. Still thinking.
Soft footsteps cut through the fake calmness.
Charles glances up.
GP is crossing the garage, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable. Charles has seen him a hundred times before, always with other people around. This must be the first time they're alone. And somehow, he radiates more authority. Harder to dismiss.
Once he spots the driver, sitting on the floor, he lingers a second longer, then crosses the garage slowly. There's a pencil tucked behind one ear. Charles didn't think people actually did that.
When he reaches Charles, he doesn't speak right away. Just looks down at him with a blank, unreadable expression.
It's a look for the history books.
The man who's guided Max through every win that slipped from Charles' fingers, now standing over him like a living reminder.
They've said each other's names a hundred times. Charles in spite, GP probably in a very formal and informative tone. Still, they were never once alone in the room before.
"You coming to sit or what?" Charles teases, voice dry. He has seen military men with less discipline in their stance, so inviting him to sit alongside him on the floor, seems like a badly written joke.
He expects a smirk, maybe a shake of the head. Something that says 'No, thank you'. To his surprise, GP does the opposite. With a small grunt, he eases himself down beside Charles on the cold concrete, mirroring his posture. Knees drawn up, arms draped loosely over them. Two silhouettes against the wide open space, tucked into the hush.
Charles doesn't speak for a moment. Just stares at the far wall. But neither does GP. Charles folds first.
"Where's Max?" he asks, breath still heavy with anxiety.
GP shifts slightly. "Left a while ago."
Just one of those statements that could mean anything from he's upstairs sulking to he just drove into the ocean.
His tone is flat, but there's something deliberate in the way he doesn't offer more. Charles has a strong suspicion this is some sort of a test. As expected.
"Didn't seem like he was done ranting."
A chuckle. "Is he ever?"
Charles lets out a small exhale, nearly a laugh. "I thought when Max didn't like something, the whole garage stayed up all night to fix it," he comments with a slight smile, but there's an edge there. Half envy, half disbelief escaping under the natural authority GP radiated.
GP glances sideways at him. "Depends what's broken."
The eye contact is too intense, so Charles tilts his head back, gazing up at the harsh garage lights. "The car didn't feel broken."
GP says nothing. The silence lingers just long enough to make Charles second-guess himself. He wonders if this is how Max felt when talking to him before. Like throwing something out, unsure if Charles is going to catch it.
He probably should have taken a minute to listen more attentively.
"But he said it was," Charles adds. "Said it felt wrong. Asked me if mine felt like shit, too."
"And did it?"
Million dollar question that one, right?
Charles lets his head rest against the wall behind him. He debates lying. Keeping it vague. But something about GP's silence makes evasion feel childish. "Didn't love it. But I assumed it was me, not the car."
He runs a hand through his hair, slow and almost absent-minded. Admitting this is not something he planned on.
He's suddenly tired in a way that has nothing to do with driving. His muscles ache from pretending everything's normal.
After a pause, he says, "He's lucky. To have someone like you."
It's not meant as flattery, but it sits there between them, awkward and true. He doesn't know if he's pushing it, but it feels like a nice opportunity to get this sentiment out. It's not a lie. If there is one thing Charles is jealous of Max, it's his unlikely good relationship with the engineer. Pray tell, why, Max of all people, has a better one that Charles ever had? It does not make sense on paper.
GP's gaze drops to the floor.
"We've been through a lot," he says simply. His tone is casual, but the phrasing is careful. Like he's talking about someone who's still in the room. "But that's the job. Tune into his musing and on a good day try and adjust his."
Charles nods. Keeps the publicly known truth to himself – that he's never had that. Not like this. Someone who absorbs the panic instead of fueling it. Someone who would listen even if he didn't know how to ask for help. Because GP knows. The whole world knows, they all get to listen to their team radios.
Charles shifts slightly, the cold from the floor starting to settle in his spine. He hesitates, chewing on the idea for a second longer than necessary. After a moment, he takes the risk.
"I know it's not protocol," he says, tone soft but steady, "but could I see his data?"
GP's eyes tighten just a touch. Not exactly suspicious, just caught off guard.
"You know I can't show you that without Christian's approval," he replies, not unkindly. Old time wisdom seems to radiate out of this man. Charles is not sure whether to be impressed or frustrated by it.
He nods, already expecting this answer. There is no attempt to argue. That's not the point of this interaction anyway. But he had to try.
"He said the car felt off," Charles repeats. "Felt wrong, actually."
GP doesn't answer directly. He looks back vaguely towards the monitors instead. Not that they are even on, or near enough to see anything. Charles watches him closely.
"And you?" Charles pushes more. "Did you feel like something was wrong?"
GP's lips press into a line. Not an intentional silence. A careful one.
"My job isn't to feel, but to analyze."
It has the air of an old punchline. Well-rehearsed, and not particularly funny anymore. "I've worked with Max a long time," he says in a tone people use when they've spent years learning the quirks of someone they refuse to give up on. "He's surprisingly good at 'feeling it out'. Despite how much he then goes and looks for data to back his feelings up. I guess he does not consider that part of him worthy of a voice."
That shouldn't feel like a getting run over. But it does.
He presses his thumb hard into the side of his hand, anchoring himself in something physical.
Charles gulp, trying not to give away anything extra. "And today?"
GP dismisses it. "Today doesn't count."
Right.
Charles isn't used to seeing someone who isn't trying to impress him. It's oddly disarming. Then, unexpectedly, GP speaks again.
"You know," he says slowly, "when Max was younger, he used to drive with the car half broken just to prove he could still win. Wouldn't even mention it until the race was over. I used to yell at him for hiding stuff like that. He said he didn't want to give anyone an excuse to think he needed help."
That story feels like being handed a key to doors he can't find.
He swallows. Then says, quieter than before, "Incredible, how well you know him."
GP gives a small, unreadable smile. "We've been through a lot."
When Charles is in this mood, he's got an answer to anything. "Time does not guarantee success."
"Surprisingly wise for someone your age," GP comments and Charles desperately tries not to feel proud.
So, he ignores the compliment.
"I hope to have that one day. This level of trust. The certainty that someone is in it in the same intensity as I am. Like you and Max."
GP looks out across the garage before replying. As much as Charles tries to get a read of his face, he can't get very much. One thing is certain. This isn't the semi-awkward man Charles has seen on the screen.
Not even the super-focused one, all furrowed brow and racing lines etched across his face.
The man sitting next to him, on the ground, is surprisingly distant and mellowed.
"Be careful what you wish for."
This statement is accompanied with a powerfully bitter smile. Charles almost asks him if he's okay. Decides not to. They're really not that close.
He dances around the topic instead. "You two work like a fine tuned piano. Who wouldn't want that?"
"Well. There are days where you have to chose the priority. When that happens, it hurts more when you're actually friends with the driver you're suppose to work with. It's especially hard to get out of it."
Charles hesitates, unsure if he's crossing a line. "You think about leaving?"
GP chuckles. "Me? No, and even if I did, I won't be telling you that. We've barely just met." He gives a short laugh, then adds, "Besides, it's not the kind of thing you say out loud until the damage is already done."
Charles knows more about this than many people. GP looks over again. "Why are you here, sitting on the floor?"
Another good question. Max's engineer must have a special talent for those. Charles looks around for a suitable answer.
"Just…taking in the sight of the ugly navy blue. Still hurts my eyes."
It earns him a chuckle. "I think you'll be alright, Charles. In a way, you sometimes talk just like him."
"Max?"
Charles just can't see how that would be true. They are as different as they come.
"Yeah. If there is one thing I'll tell you about him, the way into his heart is paved by sarcasm."
Charles snorts. Not aiming for the heart, thanks. But he files it away. "I'll remember this."
Sensing the moment of sharing is passing away, Charles gets up, stretching out his back. Offers a hand. GP waves it off.
"Floor's good for thinking."
He doesn't know what kind of thoughts a floor like this invites, but he suspects they aren't kind. GP is a man, who has probably heard more of Max's real thoughts than anyone else on the planet. Which is…a lot to consider. Charles gives him a sympathetic nod.
With nothing more to say, he leaves him, bit confused. Whatever just passed between them didn't provide much clarity.
A ding on one of the very few Whatsapp groups he does not have muted gets him out of the haze of the thoughts haunting him.
The PR core team chat.
Operation Anna is over. She is hired. Max will find out tomorrow.
And it's like a shot of adrenaline directly into Charles' veins.
He tries, he really tries, to remember the vow he made to focus less on this part of the plan. The teasing. The little games. Winding Max up just to watch him unravel.
One last time, he argues internally, already fighting the grin rising in his throat. Already picturing Max's pouty face. And, as per GP's advice, already crafting the opening joke.
'Try not to start a fight. You might not be right.'
Someone should have read their horoscope. That someone is Charles Leclerc.
He wakes up with the kind of delirium that usually only hits during race weekends, or after a really good dream. Pleasant, simmering anticipation in his chest and the knowledge that today is going to be fun.
Last day of driving during this test session. Last opportunity to dance circles around Max, both on track and off, without risking anything substantial.
Tomorrow, things might shift. Professionalism might be required.
But today? Today still belongs to him.
He puts on his fireproofs like armor and his smile like war paint. Locked and loaded. The air outside is crisp, his breakfast sat right, and he even liked his hair in the mirror. Rare alignment of the blessings.
He hums something under his breath. Stupid, victorious little tune. Something you'd hear at the end of a movie when the underdog starts to win.
When he walks into the garage, he makes sure to greet everyone – and by the looks of it, the world woke up into a completely different vibe.
He's packing bounce and fizz, only to find the room's running on an much lower frequency. It's like he stepped onto the set of an entirely different movie. One where the lighting department forgot to show up.
The contrast is almost cinematic. Charles, all cheekbones and serotonin, walking into what feels like a funeral with choreography.
Whatever. Time to find Max. Curiosity is starting to kill him. Is Max mad? Or pretending not to care? Does he suspect Charles had some doing in luring Anna away from him?
He's not even trying to hide that he's ecstatic to see him. And in the corner, there he stands. Looking like made sure to dial his bitch-face up to a hundred. Pouting just as Charles had pictured.
Cute, even.
Max is off to the side, near the drinks fridge, hovering over the garage like a dark cloud. Jacket half-zipped, face white as marble, radiating misery like it's his job. If he were anyone else, he'd look pathetic. But Max somehow manages to make even this – lurking in corners – look vaguely mythical. And just tiny bit hot. The way he's staring into the ground, looking like he's going to bite anyone who nears him. That brooding, unapproachable racing legend.
Cute, again.
Charles rolls his eyes.
Get over yourself, Max.
He sips his Red Bull and sways over, mood light, a little victorious.
Today is the day the chessboard tilts in his favor. He stole a piece. A good one. The kind that shifts momentum. Anna was a power grab. Clean, professional, and honestly? Kind of sexy of him. Max surely acknowledges that.
He braces for a snide remark or a cutting glance. Game recognizes game and all – that's the expectation. The ideal scenario.
"You know…" he starts, smile curling up like a dare, ignoring Max's attempt at ignoring him. "If I knew it only took Anna leaving for you to start moaning like this… I would have flirted with her myself last season."
Charles is supposed to be dialing it down. And that's what he'll do – unless, it's a reaction. Well, then he won't have any other choice. That is clear.
Come on, Max. Go and tell me there's payback coming.
He gives him that little wink he's been told many times is insufferable. There you go, Max. He, in return, just stares.
And not in the 'I'm plotting my comeback' kind of way. More like 'why are you in the room – no, seriously, why are you here.'
Charles keeps his pose – because, what the fuck?
Max's look is so dulled down, so personal, Charles instinctively throws up another grin, defensive this time. Max stays silent. He's just angry. Angrier than the situation calls for. Unless…
Unless he's really this hurt over Anna?
Seriously?
Charles leans in a little, nudging, still clinging to the version of events in his head where this is about a PR switch and some bruised pride. "What? You miss her that much?" he asks, almost seriously.
Max looks seconds away from detonating. His arms crossed over his chest, body stiff like after a freeze burn. He turns away, clearly done with this tragic conversation. Tries to walk away.
Oh, come on. Charles sighs, irritated now too, stepping forward and grabbing his elbow – not harshly, just enough to stop the theatrics.
Why am I the one apologizing when you're the one acting like the world owes you a hug?
Fine. He'll be the bigger person. Again. Not that he wants to, but the world doesn’t always take his requests.
"Max," he sighs, trying to keep the disappointment in, "there is still option to–"
He does not let him even finish the sentence and shoot fire.
"If you really think this is of any concern to me, " Max deadpans, in a tone that is in Charles' opinion way too serious, "Then perhaps we really don't know each other."
Okay, what the fuck once more. His brain stalls. The words are precise. Surgical. Not thrown in anger, but measured, like a man putting up a wall with the hardest concrete available.
Charles straightens his back, to appear taller. It happens absentmindedly, when he feels threatened. His blood runs colder than it should when he finally ignores the tone and focuses on the meaning. It kills all excitement in his heart.
Know each other? Don't we?
He gathers up the strength to argue, but Max cuts him off with a bitter, near-laugh.
"Fucking hell," he utters, dismissive, condescending and plainly. His blue eyes generating enough coldness to dial the temperature of the whole room down two degrees. Charles does not know what to do with a look like this.
He exhales sharply through his nose. Tries to build up his own defense walls, fails instantly, because…Well. Um.
So, he just raises both hands, backing off slightly.
"Okay. Sorry. I thought–" he begins, eyes on the ground.
Max is clearly not done. "Maybe don't try that again. Just stand in the corner and look pretty. At least you're good at that."
It's meant to sting, Charles gets that. And it does. He can only hope that it was not intended to cut as deep as it does. Not because it's cruel – because it's disdainful. Dismissive. He's heard those comments before, especially in the beginning of his F1 career. Before he got to prove to the world he means business. Many have used this to diminish him. His looks and his youthful, friendly face.
Never Max.
It's harder pill to swallow than expected. Not really knowing how to follow up on that without giving away just how unfair this feels, he backs off.
This is the second time in just few days when he looked forward seeing Max and each time he does that, he ends up more hurt. Defensive. With no effect.
He walks away without a word, trying to hide the mixed emotions stirred by what, three sentences shared with Max?
This is a clear sign. Back off, or it will destroy you.
And for the first time since joining Red Bull, maybe even years before that, Charles wonders if this entire mythology – this rivalry people speak of, this cosmic pairing the world can't stop romanticizing – was always just a projection on a screen.
He's not sad. That's definitely not it. No.
Before he can even gather himself up, a hand grips his shoulder.
“Morning, Charles,” Christian says, voice chipper, already halfway into a smile that looks more camera-ready than sincere.
Charles straightens, reflexively polite. “Morning.”
Christian pats him lightly on the shoulder – an odd gesture, soft and practiced, like he’s checking for tension. "You alright? Settling in?"
Alright? Many things but alright. But, he nods and gives him a practiced smile. He appreciates him checking in.
Christian leans in closer. "Spoke to GP this morning," he whispers, like he's saying something forbidden. "Everything's in sync for today. You should find Max's data from yesterday in your inbox."
Charles pauses. "Oh. Thank you."
"Thought it might help. Bit of a head start," Christian continues, still smiling. "I know it's a lot, switching teams. But we're glad to have you here."
Charles nods, surprised by the warmth. "I appreciate that."
The team boss lingers just long enough to make it feel personal. Then he's gone.
Charles glances at his phone, opens the email out of curiosity. Max's data, front and center. He wonders – just for a second – whether Max asked for his in return. If he's looking at Charles the way Charles is being invited to look at him.
Maybe not. Probably not.
Still, something about the moment feels important. He's not sure why, but it feels good. Like someone's betting on him. Letting him in.
In order to avoid falling into the trap of overthinking it all, he shifts his focus solely on the set up. Someone announces they will be running their laps on the same time and the only thing Charles does with this information is gently pressing his engineer to make sure they're not sent directly after each other. All while doing his best to ignore Max and the whole part of his garage too.
His car is sent off first. Good.
Today, the team decision has been made to run this car on even less aggressive and bold set up then yesterday. He accepts this, knowing this test session is only a preparation for the next, public and very much real, testing.
In this approach, he's very much copying what he saw Lewis doing. Let the team do what they usually do, study it, and only then go and start demanding.
Patience. Long game…and all that.
It's shortly after, barely three painfully slow and disappointing laps later, that Max is in his rear mirror, coming like a war flashback.
The navy blue car approaching is an image that has almost a physical effect on his body. Tense up every muscle. Be ready for the worst. He has to actively remind himself that this is just testing and that he's also sitting in the same navy blue car.
Still, it's impossible to control one's heartbeat.
He's not sure if it's his mind playing tricks on him or whether Max's driving like this is an actual race. For a moment, he's more focused on what's happening behind him. Max, sticking to the racing line like he's glued to it, nearing Charles like he actually wants to slam right into him.
"Is Max doing a push lap?" Charles checks, voice deliberately calm, despite whatever he's actually feeling, his body getting ready for a battle that's not due today.
It hits him with overwhelming clarity. He's not ready for a duel. Little to no understanding of the car, thoughts scattered around and so, so far away from anything that resembles home.
Shit. More than ever before, he feels at complete mercy of Max.
Delay on the radio response.
"Let him do what he wants. Focus on your own run," his engineer answers, with a tone that aims for neutral and lands somewhere closer to unsure. Something tightens behind Charles' ribs. They've chosen not to stop him.
To contrast it all, as if he could actually hear it, Max makes a proper racing move, with clear aim to force Charles off the line. No way in hell would Charles be able to avoid it without defending.
Charles exhales through his nose. This is what you get for poking him. Doesn't push it – yet. The plan for this run was clear: clean laps, data capture, get a read on how the tires hold over mid-distance.
Max runs his car to the inside line of the next corner. No lift or hesitation. Just blind, hungry pressure.
Charles jerks the wheel half a second late, caught between defending and disbelief, nearly spinning again. Is this what Max is trying to do? Feed into a narrative of Charles being unable to tame the Red Bull car?
He squares his shoulders and tries to stay rational. This isn't racing. This is a punishment. A declaration. You took her, so I’ll take this.
And the worst part is – if Charles lets it happen, if he lets Max walk away with a 'win', even a fake one in a fake session, then the only headline of the day will be Max Verstappen faster again.
And Max will know that too. Every time he passes him in the corridor. Every time he sits across from him in debrief.
Fuck that.
He presses the throttle harder through Sector 2, chasing rhythm. The rear kicks. The tires are still grumbling, uncooperative. The engine stutters again on corner exit.
He wants to scream.
Instead, he radios again. "Still no update on Verstappen? He's pushing like hell."
His engineer plays the same tune. "Copy. Focus on your own run."
But he clocks it. That avoidance. That tone again.
Like he's overreacting. Like he's imagining it.
His blood pressure spikes.
Oh, he sees what this is. He knows this game. Same old Red Bull logic: Max can set the tone. Charles is expected to maintain it.
He brakes late into Turn 7, lets the tires squeal, eats a bit of curb just to show he can.
Max comes again, this time from the outside. Close enough to clip if Charles isn't careful. Charles is careful. But he doesn't yield.
Stays professional. Max is obviously in a mood.
Charles grips the steering wheel. Reminds himself that he said he'd be the adult this He doesn't even have to look into the mirrors. It's like he can feel Max breathing down his neck. Still ruining a session that was never supposed to be his to ruin.
And for what? Because Anna made her own damn choice?
The extreme breaking he's forced to do now nearly stalls his engine. G force sends his body the other way and he's sure there are bruises forming under the seat belts. For a second Charles thinks he's getting sent off to the nearest wall.
And nobody, not a single voice in the whole garage does anything about it. He's alone, more alone than ever.
You know what?
Fine.
You want a fucking dance?
Let's dance.
He regroups, shifts focus into battle mode, calms the car down. When it's somewhat ready, barely – but it'll have to do – he dials up the pace and lets the engine scream. The tires slide, still not at full temperature, but he works around it. Shifts earlier, brakes deeper. Flows through the next turn like it's qualifying.
He's driving his heart out with a car that's actively working against him, while Max, in his infinite wisdom, has turned this into an ego battle.
The next time Max edges closer, Charles throws the car into the corner first, earlier than necessary, on purpose. It unsettles the rear again, but it sends a message.
You'll have to take it from me.
He sees Max back off. Just slightly. Enough to know he felt it.
But he thinks it's not over. Not by a long shot.
Not until the smoke.
Over before it even started.
A reaction.
Hint of life in the eyes that lack the color they once had.
Igniting the championship fight that Max (and destiny) owes him.
That's what Charles craved.
But it's never "somewhere in the middle" with Max, is it? All or nothing. Kill me, or watch me have a go at you.
At first, he thought luck was going to be on his side for these few days – this false sense of security prompted simply by the fact the Red Bull days don't overlap with Ferrari's.
That's about where is luck ran out.
Red flag followed by a team decision to cut the session short for both cars. Weather, they say. How ironic, that it does not seem affect any other team.
At first, Charles fears the worst – Max's car suffered a failure. Then, when he's back at the garage, watching telemetry, he discovers another layer of "the worst".
It's not – that cannot – Fuck.
Two possible explanations. Max has either: never driver an F1 car before…Or he's done it on purpose.
He looks up from the data screen, blinking in disbelief.
Max's throttle trace isn't just aggressive – it's violent.
Charles glances toward his engineer, waiting for the obvious to be acknowledged. Wonders if he's imagining the words coming out of his mouth: "Max does this in testing sometimes, no big deal."
He could scream.
He could punch the wall.
Instead, he just sits there. Breathing hard. Watching the adults in the room pretend it didn't happen.
So, wait – Charles has a minor spin in his first session in the car and the garage barely looks at him after? Then, Max follows up the next day, drives in a way that could not have ended any different than with the engine explosion…And it's somehow more okay?
Whatever deal Max signed with the devil, he's surely cashing it out in full.
He swallows down the laugh rising in his throat.
No one would even think of doing this at Ferrari. And if he had? They'd have made him apologize to the mechanics, the engine, the Pope and the Prime Minister.
He steps away from the telemetry screen, needing distance, only to catch the moment Max strolls back into the garage like nothing happened.
There's Christian, standing just off to the side, arms crossed, face unreadable. Waiting, maybe. Ready for answers, discipline, anything.
And Max?
Max just passes him by, says one word Charles can't make out, and strolls away, as if nothing happened.
And Christian lets him.
Had Charles acted like that in Ferrari, they'd be holding him hostage in dreadful meetings for hours. Looks like WDC really serves as an unbeatable "get out of jail" card.
So, his teammate just cut Charles' session in half…And nobody's going to do anything about it? Is this how it's going to be? Him against the team that can't control their star driver?
Can't anyone see what he's doing?
For a second, Charles actually wonders if this is some elaborate test.
See how long the new guy can keep his cool.
Maybe they're all in on it. Christian. The engineers. Max.
Sure, they'll give him Max's data. But will also cut his session short, so that he has nothing to compare it to. Brilliant.
Il Traditore.
His legs start walking before his mind finishes up the plan. Powered by anger, spite and despair about the injustice of it all, he storms into Max's driver room.
The smug smile is probably the worst. Closely followed by the way Max sits, slouched on the couch, leg crossed over the other. Combined with the awfully calm energy he's radiating, it's a cocktail that's sending Charles into inward spiral.
He's having a whole lot of trouble to stay standing still. He's not an aggressive person, but right now, Max deserves to be pushed against the wall and reminded of basic human decency.
When you do something bad, you should at least look like you understand what your actions do to others.
Not sit around, looking the happiest ever.
"You blew up your engine. In testing. On purpose," Charles accuses him bluntly.
Max looks up, like he's wondering whether he has or hasn't done it. Making fun of Charles without even speaking. He throws him that signature upside down smile and puts his hands up.
"Hard to tell. Maybe the car just can't handle me."
Un-fucking-believable. Charles grits his teeth.
"You nearly took me out in Turn Nine." It was actually Turn Seven probably, but he does not bother to correct himself. That's not the point at all.
He swears he sees Max pushing back a smile. Then, he has the audacity to perk his lips up and send him a kiss.
Okay, Charles is going to punch him. He really is.
"If I wanted to take you out," Max says lazily and rolls his tongue, "you'd know."
He takes a deep breath to get his blood pressure down.
Think of the consequences. You can't start the season with an anger tantrum. You're better than this.
Up until yesterday, he thought Max was also better than this. If Max is willing to do this during a testing session, Charles must have overestimated his maturity.
"Is that what this is now?" he fails at containing the volume of his voice, that's still packed with anger. "Ego contest in front of twenty engineers who have to pretend they didn't just watch you throw away half a million Euros in damages?"
Max stays collected. Watches Charles like he's a particularly funny scene on the TV. "Such a long sentence…"
This is all just a trap. Charles looks into Max's face and finds nothing to cling to. Not an inch of kindness, just pure bitterness.
He quickly calculates the stakes, which actually helps him dial the anger.
No more falling for stupid little games. He is going to do better.
"You ruined my run, Max. That's low, even for you," he says, breathlessly.
Something changes in his teammates face. Mockery replaced by intrigue. Still no sign of guilt or shame. Just a different flavor of smug.
"We could have stayed in England and just drive around the parking lot. It would bring the same results," Max comments dryly.
Has he really checked out this much? The muffled thoughts in Charles' brain skip one over another, because it really does not make any sense. He says one thing, then goes and does something completely out of the character he's trying to play up.
Charles was right in the morning. This eternal rivalry, the so-called-unspoken understanding on track, combined with off track debriefs, were all just an illusion he'd dreamed up. Perhaps to give purpose to his own story.
"You looked good out there," Max says and it almost sounds honest. No that it matters. A smile grows on his lips, while Charles' face stays frozen.
"Hot," Max adds cruelly, and the smile travels to his eyes.
Deep down, Charles knew it was a mistake, before it even happened. Tangling their story up even further by hooking up together.
First time, he could blame alcohol. Second time, the built up unresolved tension. The fact he finds himself coming back to the memory of it when he's alone? That's his punishment for not being careful. This game he failed. It's clear, based on Max's coolness and the casualty of it all.
Ultimately, he's handed Max a tool, a knife with which he can cut him up anytime he wants.
"Fuck off, Max," he replies, but fails to add any spice to his words.
"Come to my room later," Max delivers another punch. "We won't be driving tomorrow. You can handle sitting in the debrief with a reminder of my dick in your ass, right?"
A line like that might rile him up into a snapshot reply on any other given day. But, with the walls closing in like now, he just can't find it. Max has him where he never expected to end up. For a moment, he fears he's just going to give in.
"Or would you rather fly off to see Anna?"
Just like that, the fear is gone. This is what happens, when you play too many games at once. Something slips up. Charles is slipping up. For Max, it's still a playground. Melodramatic Charles is standing here, fighting the urge to keep writing a story they never actually lived, alone.
Tired. He's just tired of watching and overthinking his every step. It's nobody else' fault but his, that's not the point. He just wishes someone would break the spell.
So, he turns around, with the intention of leaving the room, before this gets out of hand.
"Enjoy your little tantrum," he declares. He'll give Max space to marinate with his emotions alone. Regroup once it settles down. Once Charles calms down. "Just don't drag me into it next time."
And for a moment, he really means it.
He should have closed to door faster.
"Next time, try to keep up."
Max's words echo in every cell of Charles' body.
He closes his eyes. Just for a second.
Because if he doesn’t, he might actually break something. Or cry. Or laugh. Maybe all three.
Charles feels the urge to fire back. To chase. To win.
Because that's how they're wired, right? One push, and the race is on.
But this time, the pattern doesn't bring fire.
It brings ache.
Because Charles tried. He really, really tried today. To be professional. Mature.
To hold the line between rivalry and… whatever this is becoming.
Behind his eyelids, it's not dark. It’s flashing lights. Crushed trackside banners. Smoke burning up the retinas. Max's smile. Max's fucking smile.
Was Charles ever in control of any of this? Did he imagine the entire middle ground they used to meet on?
Not even words left now, just the singular, unholy need to win. Max is speaking to him like that. Cool. Unbothered. Handsome in the most infuriating way.
Oh well, it's never Plan A with Charles, is it?
Don't do it, Charles. It's going to destroy you. Don't say it.
The way Max brushes past everything like it costs him nothing…And Charles? Charles is still paying for every second they've ever shared.
He could walk away. There's still time. Still a version of this where he shuts the door and lets the fury settle.
But his body's already leaning in.
Already remembering the last time.
Already burning with the need to reclaim something Max never admitted to giving.
He's not rising to the challenge.
He's falling.
Today is not a day for Charles to force personal growth. No. He still has few sins to commit.
"Text me the room number."
They're not out of the woods.
Not even close.
Just deeper now.
Chapter 11: Hands or Mouth
Summary:
"We're doing things differently this time," Max announces.
Charles' voice comes out lower now. "Is that so."
Notes:
consistency is key
one that i don't possess.
here's a second chapter in one weekend. it just felt like it needed a separate one.make out playlist on, guys
Chapter Text
Charles nearly doesn't come.
To the door, to Max's hotel roo–
Ah, nevermind.
He's cooked. Horny, impatient (after being left on read for nearly three hours), cleaned, shaven and most importantly…cooked.
With all the stress of the testing, unaddressed shame, guilt about even being in Red Bull and fatigue from all his scheming, it's clear it's taking a tole on him. He's coming – to the door, coming to the door, Charles, get it together, Jesus – with uncharacteristic resignation.
Max, do whatever. I'll bend.
Metaphorically, not…Yeah, figuratively too.
The door opens. Eyes meeting again, but somehow it feels new. Charles studies Max, as he stands in his typical casual, nonchalant elegance. In comparison to him, Charles must look pathetic.
He just does not have it in him today. From a strategic point of view, this is probably his greatest mistake yet. But he's just so. Damn. Fed up.
Always thinking of the bigger picture, of the game and its consequences.
Had Max met this version of Charles in the club bathroom, he'd be fucking him into the oblivion that very night.
Which will hopefully happen today, in about two minutes if Charles can have a preference for once.
The door swings wider.
Max is barefoot, sweatpants slung so low on his hips it should come with some sort of a fucking warning. Charles drinks it in. Like a man denied water. It hurts.
The white t-shirt he's wearing is some generic sponsor piece, not designed to flatter Max at all, yet maybe it's precisely why it hits Charles somewhere deep inside. The way how even with no effort put in, he's still more alluring than the most styled up model.
His eyes trace the sharp cut of Max's collarbone, the line of his neck, the shadow beneath his jaw. His forearms. The veins on his hands. The way one hip rests lazily against the doorframe like his body doesn't even register the effect it has. It's obscene. Unintentional, maybe, but so is Charles' wondering look.
This is bad. His brain has stopped running the usual simulations and instead started picturing a different kind of forecast – one that involves sweat rolling down Max's lower back. The heat of his hand's pressed into wherever he desired to touch Charles, with that little-to-no mercy.
It's the posture that gets him. Always the posture. Max stands like he's daring the floor to creak beneath him. Like the stillness is just another form of violence.
"Hi," Max says.
Charles might actually pass out.
"Hi," he echoes, and that's it. That's all the poise he's got.
He steps in, because there is nothing else to do at this point. Brushes over Max, deliberately avoiding touching him. Still, he feels the magnetic pull.
The air feels thick. Something inside him gives, butterflies already doing their job in his stomach.
He's not thinking about leverage or optics anymore. Just Max, just this room, just now. His desire takes over, private and hungry.
Max is radiating different energy than usually. Well, different than last time Charles entered his hotel room. Less closed off, he's inviting him in, not taking every opportunity to push him out.
If Charles isn't careful enough, he might actually start thinking Max honestly wants him here. He can't do that, because then Charles would truly lose it. Already, there is no energy left to lie to himself.
It's a terrifying relief to want like this. And maybe that's the key. Maybe letting it all go away will reset his brain back to usual setting.
Max watches him step in, lets the silence linger.
Charles doesn't know what to do. It's a terrifying thought.
So, he lets go. Wondering where that takes them.
He walks further deeper into the room. Max's footsteps follow him, like he's his prey.
Then, with a little shrug, almost amused:
"Took you long enough. Figured you had to go jerk off first."
Charles lifts his gaze, too quickly, and the sight of Max throws him off. His jaw, covered in messy stubble. Eyes so blue it feels illegal. Someone with such an unapologetic stare should not possess them.
His mouth looks soft. Way too soft for the shit he talks. Charles closes his eyes and tries to shake the feeling away. He's doing it again. Riling him up for no fucking reason other than the obvious enjoyment in pushing Charles' buttons.
The irony of this statement being that Charles had actually waited after getting the text, forced himself to do that, because for the past hour, he's just been sat on the couch, scrolling on the phone, waiting for Max's signal.
"Do people do that often before you fuck them?" he briefly turns and throws a comment back at him, doubting his tone is holding it up. "Are the reviews that bad?"
"I don't know," Max mutters, stepping in close enough for their chests to nearly touch. He reaches up and drags his fingers lightly along Charles' jaw, forcing him to look him in the eye. "You tell me, sweetheart."
He lets the pet name hang like smoke between them, watching Charles' mouth twitch at the corners.
"We're doing things differently this time," Max announces. He shifts closer, moving his hand down to brush over Charles' waist, then gliding around to rest at the small of his back.
Charles' voice comes out lower now. "Is that so."
"Uhm," Max steps back, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving Charles' – and pulls something from the back pocket of his jeans. A scarf, unassuming piece of delicate silk fabric. Dark, soft, unmistakably intentional.
He lets it unfold between his fingers with an easy flick of the wrist, like he's done this before.
Charles' brows lift, but his lips stay shut.
"You'll get to pick," Max says, clearly happy with himself, lifting the scarf slightly. "Either I tie up your hands," he loops the fabric lightly once, suggestive, "or that sweet mouth of yours."
On a normal day, Max is very skilled at intense eye contact. Clearly, he's having an exceptionally good day. Charles nearly yields and tells him to choose. But his something inside wakes up.
Shivers travel down his spine, serving as a reminder that Max's hand was there just a moment ago. Charles tilts his head, smile curling slow and dangerous.
"You're giving up me sucking your dick? Was I not good enough?" Charles asks, his statement void of a single hint of self-doubt. He saw Max last time. The surprise after Charles abruptly stopped. Charles is many things, but not blind.
"That needs to be earned," Max he throws back, a touch too proud, sending Charles into new heights of disbelief. Throwing his own lines back at him? Can he be any more adorable?
It all clicks together immediately.
Max is doing this to repay Charles for last time. And apparently, thinks that by getting rid of one of Charles' senses, he will manage to be the dominant one. A role he's clearly used to.
Oh, this is so, so cute. Charles' minimal restraint is slipping. Each breath a little heavier, each thought a little filthier.
It's actually amusing, the way Max plans to order him around, yet lets it give away so obviously, that he's still replaying their last encounter. Over and over, hopefully.
Fine. Charles will happily play along. Give him the space to at least try to call the shots. Just like last time.
Max's thumb grazes over Charles' lower lip, the fabric tangled between his fingers, pressing in just slightly. Waiting for the answer. He continues and grazes his nail over Charles' chin.
The choice is obvious. He scans Max's face and decides to save him from the wait.
"Hands."
He keeps his lips opened and slowly slides his tongue down Max's finger, making sure to hold up the eye contact. Charles' main weapon is his mouth. He's never giving up the option to talk Max up into a hazy heights. In fact, he's got a new goal of doing just that. Cheeks sucked in, he slowly swallows the finger in. Max's eyes widen, just slightly.
He twirls his tongue around Max's finger, who keeps in for few seconds, but the in turn slides his hand out, temporarily forgetting to curate his facial expressions. A small window to the soul – lust, need, hint of shame.
Max pushes Charles' chest and nods somewhere behind Charles, presumably showing him off to the bedroom. It causes Charles to stumble a bit, mainly because he's too busy burying down a chuckle.
Oh, Max.
Max leans in like he's going to say something, but doesn't. Just grabs the hem of Charles' t-shirt and pulls it up, slow and rough, until Charles lifts his arms and lets him take it. Max tosses it to the floor without looking.
Then it's Max's turn. Charles reaches for the bottom of his t-shirt, fingertips brushing skin. Max doesn't help. Just stands there, arms loose at his sides, like he's waiting to see how far Charles will go.
Charles takes his time. Peels it up inch by inch, knuckles grazing over ribs, the dip beneath Max's chest, until the fabric's over his head and gone.
And then – finally – Max grabs his face with both hands and kisses him.
It's a collision. Lips and teeth. A low sound punches out of Max's chest, and Charles swallows it greedily. Typical Max, all tongue and pressure.
Their bodies crash together, warm skin on skin, hands roaming with zero finesse. Max bites Charles' lip, not too hard, but enough to make him gasp, and Charles pulls him in by the waistband, making sure there's no space left between them. Max walks them further into the bedroom.
Charles catches himself on the edge of the bed, silk scarf still loose in Max's fingers, dangling between them like a dare that hasn't been spoken out loud yet.
He pulls away, straightens up, not all the way, just enough to roll his shoulders back, letting his chest rise in deliberate calm. The kind that says: go on, then.
Max hasn't moved. He's standing just a breath too close, eyes locked on Charles, chest rising and falling like he's been holding his breath for too long and forgot why. Leans in to kiss him again.
Charles tilts his head, amused despite everything. "You gonna use that," he nods to the scarf, "or just wave it around until we both forget why we're here?"
It does the trick. Max grabs one of Charles' wrists – not hard, but not gentle either – and lifts it between them. Surprises Charles by turning his around and reaching for his other hand. The little gasp, that escapes his mouth, seems to particularly please Max. He's harsh about it. Charles loves it.
When he's done, silence settles into the hotel room. Far from awkward. Packed with anticipation. At least on Charles' part. Max is giving him a chance to run, knowing full well he won't.
"You okay?" Max asks, quiet but not soft. Fingertips brushing the inside of Charles' palm, breath hitting the back of his neck.
Charles nods. Not because he's okay, but because he's ready.
Max turns him back around in a flash.
Face to face, Max looks him up and down and comments, almost like joke. "Fuck, you’re pretty like this," he eyes him up and down and gives an approving nod. "Should wear it more often."
If this were the first time Charles saw him, he'd think he's making fun of him. But, he knows better than that. There is a glimmer of truth hanging in the air. Oh, this is so.
Charles breathes in once, slow.
"Yeah?" he says. "Is that an offer?"
Something shifts behind Max's eyes.
And he grins. Sarcastically, like right before he strikes someone down with one sentence comment. That sharp, bratty grin that barely disguises the evil underneath.
Charles mimics it.
In return, Max pushes him on the bed with one swift move of his arm. Watches, as Charles, without the support of his hand, just falls down and hopes for the best.
It's not with the elegance Charles would like to have, but still, he manages to prop himself up on his elbows.
Charles shifts up, chest rising, breath shallow. Max steps forward, gaze dark and locked in.
He crawls up after him, one knee on the bed, then the other, weight pressing into the mattress as he closes the gap.
Charles stays still, watching him approach. Max straddles his thighs, doesn't say anything, just leans in and mouths along his collarbone, tongue hot, breath heavier than before. His fingers drag down Charles' sides, slow and deliberate, like he's marking territory.
Charles exhales, short and shaky. The weight of Max over him makes it impossible to pretend this is casual.
Every inch of contact is a statement: how Max settles over his thighs, how his mouth moves along his collarbone like he’s tasting possession.
For every action, there is an equal reaction. Max's tongue grazes his neck, hitting the spots he already found out work for Charles. Who in return does not stop his light moans and twitches. With his hands tied behind his back, he has to find different ways of reaching closeness. Leaning in, rocking his hips against Max comes naturally.
Charles' skin jumps where fingers trail. It's impossible to lie in this situation. Whatever Max is doing works wonders on Charles. He could spend hours letting Max explore his body.
He can feel the brush of Max's breath when he lifts his mouth, can feel it shift into something heavier, more curious.
And then – Max pauses. Right above Charles' ribs, he fixes his eyes on the spot of skin, blooming in a mess of colors. A forming bruise, deep red and storm-purple, like something tried to claw its way out.
Max goes still. He stares at it for a second too long. His fingers hover, then land – careful, precise. Not touching the bruise directly, but tracing the skin around it like he's trying to understand the shape of what he did.
"That from this morning?" he asks, voice quiet. Like he's actually concerned.
Charles doesn't answer, because he didn't come here to sulk. But his breath hitches, just slightly. Impatient.
Max lowers his head and presses a kiss to it. Not soft. Not showy. Just there. Firm and focused, like he's trying to be careful. Charles lets him. Barely. It pisses him off just a bit. To hide his unease, he shifts, the move small and tense. Laughs under his breath.
"Oh, come on," he mutters, tone sharp enough to slice the moment open. "Don't get sentimental now, just because you drive like a psycho."
Max looks up at him. One brow raised, mouth twitching toward a smirk.
"You bruise easy," he wraps up the conversation, without any emotion tied into it. "Must be impractical."
And just like that, they're back.
Sort of.
Then he dips lower, biting a line across Charles' ribs.
Charles exhales sharply, head tipping back.
Max shifts up on his knees and hooks his fingers into the waistband of Charles’ jeans. No ceremony. Just that sharp, almost irritated efficiency, like the piece of clothing itself is in his way.
He doesn't bother with gentleness. When the denim catches on Charles' hips, Max gives one rough tug that drags everything down at once – jeans, briefs, tension. The confidence he radiates catches Charles by surprise.
"Don't pout. They are ugly anyway," Max says, flicking the discarded pants aside like they've personally offended him.
Charles keeps his mouth shut. If he starts bickering about fashion now, Max might take it as foreplay – and they'll never get anywhere.
Max's game plan is clear as day, but the irritating thing is that it is working…On irritating Charles. Not his finest train of thought, but with Max undoing his belt like that, what else is he supposed to think about?
Then, with infuriating casualness, Max reaches for Charles' socks. Methodical, like it's part of a checklist.
He peels one off and flicks it aside without looking. Then the other.
"Why are you still wearing these?" he teases. "Ruins the…aesthetique," he adds, in a particularly awful rendition of a French accent.
Charles wants to grip something, but he can't and Max is already crawling over him again, nothing but skin now – hot, rough, and so maddeningly sure of himself.
They collide like magnets that have been circling each other for too long. Max presses their bodies together, his hand already wrapped around Charles' dick like it's something he owns.
Charles gasps, head tipping back against the mattress. Max uses the moment to start kissing his body around. Mouth greedy, mapping every inch of skin he can reach, not gentle but not sloppy either.
Method in the madness. That's what he is.
"You're different today," Charles teases, not even trying to mask his fascination. "The little faux track battle got you that horny?"
Max looks up at him, visibly done with Charles. "Next time, I'm just gonna tie your mouth without options," he says and tries to get back to whatever he was doing.
Charles wiggles, catching his attention again. "What, Charles?" Max sighs, acting annoyed and tired, like he's been frustrated for days. But not enough for Charles' liking.
He smiles wide. Teeth out, cheeks almost hurting. And shoots.
"Uuuh…Next time?" he sings suggestively and to his surprise – it works. Max, all swag and cool today, with that 'I can do whatever I please' attitude, freezes. Like he'd just admitted to a crime. Charles, pleased as ever, sends him a silent kiss. Just like Max did few hours ago in his driver room.
That just about does it. Max snaps.
He moves fast, like he's trying to fuck the words out of Charles entirely. Hands everywhere – urgent, expert, ruthless. His stubble scrapes along skin already oversensitive, dragging fire down Charles' ribs, his throat, the insides of his thighs. He leaves red behind. Just like last time.
A snap of a cap. Cold.
The lube hits like a jolt. Icy, sticky and unannounced.
Charles jerks. "Fuck, warn a guy–"
Max doesn't. He just grins like he's proud of the reaction, then presses in. One finger, then two, then three – relentless, perfectly spaced, his hand working like he's calibrating a delicate machine.
Charles whines in bliss, back arching, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a curse. His wrists pull instinctively against the binds, hips shifting to meet the pressure.
Max leans in, voice hot against his ear.
"Car never let me in this smooth. Starting to think you're the upgrade?"
And just like that – the room tone changes.
Charles lets out an annoyed groan. Staring at the ceiling like it might have answers. It wakes him up a bit. He realizes he briefly forgot who they are, where they are and what's been happening. Annoying little details. Charles does not want to talk about cars, other people or anything real in fact.
He deserves to be in this safe little bubble they'd created.
Enough of letting Max call the shots. He's about to ruin it all with this nonsense.
He exhales hard through his nose. A single sharp breath. It's now his patience that's running out.
"Max."
Flat. Controlled. Borderline dangerous. He has his attention immediately. Fingers still in, but not moving anymore.
"Be nice," Charles says, giving it all into the eye contact. "We talked about this last time."
Max doesn't freeze like usually does, but it's clear it brings out a very specific frustration. "Fucking hell, Charles, stop with that shit," he mumbles, biting his skin harder to prove a point. "It's boring," he dismisses eventually.
Charles turns his head lazily toward him, eyes narrowed. "Max…Chéri," he speaks in a slow and composed manner. Condescending probably, confident definitely. He's back. "Lying isn't being nice."
Max pulls back slightly, eyes narrowing right back. "I will put a t-shirt in your mouth, if you don't shut up."
Then, he has the absolute audacity to pull his fingers out. Now, that it really rude. Charles needs to step in.
"No, you won't."
And the thing is – Charles says it like it's already written in stone.
Max looks around the room anyway. Like he's honestly thinking about doing it. In fact, he even moves over and turns his head, seemingly looking for a space t-shirt. He's practically vibrating with something – resistance, maybe. Resentment. Arousal. All of it tangled into that feral thing he becomes when he's trying not to feel too much. The roll Charles does with his hips is an absentminded one. If he could, he'd roll them over and kiss these stupid ideas away.
Instead, he watches, amused. For a moment, until it becomes annoying, to his pulsating dick mainly. "Max, you gave me two options and I picked one. Now, deal with it. I don't wish to be silent. Understood?"
Max finally freezes. Not dramatically. Just… all at once. Like his body hasn't caught up with his brain.
Then, slowly, very slowly, very reluctantly, like he's fighting it, he nods.
Charles is transfixed.
Max, sitting still like someone forgot him there. Charles is utterly fascinated by his face. How he just…folds completely. Almost like he wants to. But also doesn't. Charles could watch this battle for hours. In fact, he'd be happy just sitting here, making Max crumble like this, while he'd jerk off to the sight.
It's fucked up. And hot. He tries not to linger on it too long, but the fantasy burns its mark anyway.
"Now," he says, smooth as sin. "I believe you were doing something?" Charles addresses Max, who promptly goes back into licking his neck and mapping his thighs.
Charles closes his eyes and lets the pleasure of Max's touch drown him. He's somehow checking all the boxes.
The way Max crumples under that kind of directness – it's not weakness. In fact it's the precise thing that makes Charles want to wrap him around his finger, protect this sacred state and keep it all to himself. He can be responsible with it. Treat it carefully, walk the line with him.
There is many more metaphors in his mind, but when Max drags his fingers so close to his core, it's impossible to think. Words come out of his mouth in their own.
"Oh–fuck–Max," Charles arches into the touch, teeth catching on his lower lip, trying to hold onto something, control, breath, reality. Max's fingers dig in again, rough and insistent, and Charles laughs, nearly delirious. "See? You can be so–good."
Max doesn't respond. Just drops his mouth back to Charles' thigh, silent this time. All obedience and nothing gentle.
"No need to fight it," Charles chuckles with pleasure on the tip of his tongue. Oh, fuck.
"Fine," Max mumbles and pops up a bit. One hand snakes downward, wraps around his own cock. God, he's so beautiful like that. He strokes once, then again, eyes fluttering closed like he can't help it – like he's trying to shut out the entire world except for this moment.
And then: "I'll be nice, just shut up," he pleas, his true level of desperation revealing itself by accident.
Charles' eyes grow wide.
Electric silence cuts through the sound of their heavy breaths. Charles drinks in the sight set in front of him. So handsome, so pure.
Max folds under the weight of the emotion, stops and sighs. Buries his face back into Charles' skin, as if to hide in it. Knowing he made another mistake. Well, mistake in his book, probably, an adorable admission in Charles'.
And that seals it. Charles wins.
His voice drops, velvet and precise. "Max. You know what you need to say."
Max groans into his skin, already knowing the script. "Charles, I'm not playing this game again."
"Oh no. You are," voice gleaming with victory. "Look at you. So eager and ready."
"I'm not saying it, Charles," Max insists, but his hips twitch forward like his body is already answering for him.
You know what? Fine. Charles will get him there. Sooner than later. Now, he can just knock the wind in his direction.
"Okay Max, look at me."
Max lifts his head. Dazed. Wrecked. His pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he's barely holding on.
"Max," Charles takes a second to make his words land stronger. "I want to be fucked by you. Please."
It lands like a gunshot. No theatrics, no teasing lilt. Just truth. Stripped, bare, impossible to ignore.
"Okay," Max answers, like he's still doing something forbidden.
"Good boy," Charles praises him and lets him draw circles with his finger again. Max proceeds to lube himself up some more and when he's done, he aligns himself at Charles' hole.
"Wait," Charles orders and like on cue, Max looks up, stops and waits for directions. Like the good boy he is for Charles. One day, this guy will kill Charles with his adorableness. But, there are rules. He didn't say please. "Max. Flip us over."
Max nods, dumbly at first. Only after Charles raises his eyebrows, as if to reminder he's talking to him and not anyone else, he moves. In one fluid motion, he hooks his arms under Charles and turns them, the scarf pulling around Charles' wrists as gravity shifts. The bed creaks. Air leaves Charles' lungs for half a second, replaced by Max’s heat, his hands, his weight.
And for a moment, they hover – locked in the frame of a movie no one else will ever see. The bruises, the sweat, the tremble in Max's jaw. The want.
Then the world crashes back in, and Charles lets it. He uses all the athletic abilities he has in the sleeve and props to sit on Max's waist. It's really difficult to make this look good without the support of his arms, but he manages. Probably, judging by Max's opened mouth and fascination written all over his face.
Charles gleams with pride, he is the one causing him to look like that. He pushes himself up on the knees and stays above Max for a moment.
"Max, would you be so kind and hold your dick for me?"
And he does.
"Thank you, Max."
With that, he slides his body onto Max. Thighs doing all the work, hands still tied behind his back, but it's so, so worth it.
"See? Manners," he comments with broken voice and he rolls his hips for the first time. His breath catching as he finds the rhythm. He doubts Max even hears him.
His thighs are already shaking a little. Not from weakness, but from the absurd control it takes to pace himself. The scarf tightens with every motion, every shift of weight, and Charles doesn't know what's more intoxicating – the stretch in his arms, or the way Max's hands grip his thighs like he might fall through the mattress.
And finally, after few in and out rolls, Max closes his eyes and groans. He's somewhere else. They both are.
It's almost unbearable, the way pleasure blooms in him. Every nerve feels newly strung, as if his body's been rewritten to respond only to this: the drag, the stretch. When he's like this, there is never a movement that hits wrong. He's precise, knows what he's chasing and skilled enough to ride it home.
Max given in, completely and totally. Charles takes in the pleasure. The sheer, shattering relief of not needing to think. It's automatic. Raw and easy. Not needing to be sharp or clever or three moves ahead. He rolls his hips in a steady tempo, unlike the breaths escaping his throat.
Max beneath him is a study in desire. His lips are parted. Just slightly. Like he's stuck in the moment between breath and speech, but no words are coming. Only sound. There's a drop of sweat gathering at his collarbone.
Charles watches the way Max's fingers flex against his thighs. Gripping, like he's afraid he might disappear. And lower – Charles sees himself. Sees where they're joined.
He looks back at Max. Sees the redness across Max's face, from heat, hunger and shame of being perceived so openly. From him, from what Charles is doing.
Oh, it's heaven. Charles does not make any attempt at stopping the sound leaving his mouth. Some words come out, in French, in English – he's not keeping any account of that. His focus is on the feeling gathering in every fiber of his body. On Max clenching below him.
It's devastating. Beautiful. Unguarded in a way Max never is, not even with his face. And Charles takes it all in, hoarding every detail like proof. Proof that this happened. That he got Max to this edge.
He moves and moves and moves, almost losing it already in the motion. One, two, three more and then he speak coherently again.
"Max," he gasps and slows down. Never really stopping moving. "Untie me."
He looks at him with the most dumbfounded look in his eyes. Like he doesn't understand the language. Completely gone, somewhere else. Charles loves it. He would drown in those empty eyes.
He hints at his arms, guiding him to follow his direction. Max seems to understand now. He gulps and pops himself up on his elbows carefully, with Charles still on top of him. In an awkward set of moves, seemingly finding it difficult to untie his own knot, he eventually manages to release Charles' arms.
He extends them, only now feeling the fatigue in his shoulders. Not important. He leans over to Max and kisses him like it's been hours since he'd done that.
When he's got him distracted again, he gathers up all his self-control and gently slides off Max. He in return protests into Charles' mouth, but gets shushed quickly.
"Don't worry, chéri. Lie down."
Max obeys and lies down, pupils blown wide and mouth part open. Charles, in his own dazed mind, is absolutely certain that he could ask Max to do anything and he would follow.
It's intoxicating.
Powered by desire, settles on top of Max's thighs and leans down, ignoring the pain in his own, tired legs. With his right hand, he grabs Max's pulsing dick, with the other he covers his mouth. Squeezes probably more than he should, but Max does not seem to particularly mind.
"My turn," he says and start jerking Max off, muting any sounds he could be making under his hand. Not that he does not want to hear Max, but this is about driving him as crazy as possible.
His tempo is relentless, only one goal on mind. Max tenses up under his touch – his thighs clench, his arms grip Charles' and veins on his neck pulse violently. But the most captivating thing to watch is the muscles in his abdomen. Charles would lick them, if he could. He moves and moves, without missing a beat, driving Max directly into the release – which comes almost immediately. Beautiful sight to observe, Max clenching, then falling apart at once. Charles' hand does not leave his mouth, the muffled sounds vibrating on his fingers. His perfect, tamed, Max. Innocent, flushed and willing.
He'd drown in the picture-scene set in front of him, but he can't delay himself that much longer. It aches, in his dick, in his brain and just about everywhere.
The moment Max's release is done, he moves to chase his own orgasm. It only takes few trusted moves, eyes dead set on broken Max lying helplessly, for Charles to get there too.
If this is war, then Charles is happy to surrender – with his hands tied.
Chapter 12: Not You
Summary:
It is only a matter of time before Charles figures it out. Max might as well learn something from GP and be the one to tell him.
What is Charles going to do – tell Christian?
What is Christian going to do – fire Max?
Notes:
IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE AN UPDATE AND I'M NOTHING BUT SORRY
ao3 curse and life hit hard
if you're still reading this and following the story – thank you, thank you, thank youalso, my brain exploded in these past two weeks...horner is out and I'm so ready for a new era.
let's pretend that hasn't happened yet in 2025, for the sake of the story
summary to refresh the vibe:
Charles hasn't been home in weeks. Emotionally or geographically.
His little web of PR games accidentally ends up in hook ups with Max – be that in a bathroom or hotel rooms. How can he resist, when Max looks so cute when he begs?
2026 Bahrain pre-testing session gone wrong. What Charles doesn't know is that his car ran a prototype engine, and Max's was basically fitted with training wheels. Max went and blew his up and ended the session. On purpose. Because if they're going to suffer, they're going to suffer together.
And then, naturally, he lures Charles into fucking him about it.
Call it what it is: Charles is blowing up his life to sit in hell with Max.
And Max makes sure to stay repressed like a it's a new FIA regulation.
.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The narrative is forming. Fast, strong and most importantly – without Charles' ability to shift it.
He's doing that thing he promised he wouldn't anymore. Diving into the racing gossip channels, watching those who made a living following racing grasping for content to feed off during the off-season.
It would be foolish and naive to assume the news of an Red Bull engine exploding during a test session wouldn't get out. Hot info like that battles NDAs like a horde of sharp swords. The fact media were not present does not make any difference.
In fact, it gives room to even more speculation. For a good day, the story was that it was Charles' car that blew up, before 'a respectable source' cleared that one up. Okay, so it wasn't entirely without Charles' intervention.
After few days, the general public consensus is that Red Bull is struggling with finding the right set up.
That would all be somewhat fine for Charles.
The other angle that is forming? Not so much.
Has Charles made the mistake of a century moving over the struggling team? Part of the world definitely seems to have their minds already made up.
Watching a podcast of a popular cheerful duo, where one of the hosts is a known Ferrari fan – someone that Charles has met few times, someone who had interviewed him – speculate whether Charles is already regretting his choice is a true recipe for a headache.
Still, Charles lies in his bed and lets the words pour down into his ears.
How will Charles handle the struggles that plague the team?
Is this some sort of divine punishment for him leaving the Ferrari ship?
Does this mean he is forever doomed to be title-less?
Is he the next racing tragedy in the making?
His PR team works fast, but people's hunger for a story works faster.
The Milton Keynes bed is beginning to form a shape of his body, given that he still hasn't gone home and when he's not testing, training or running off working his PR duties, he goes to lie in it and sulks.
They have only a week of factory work before they embark on double week testing session. Public this time. So naturally, the whole factory is up working overtime.
In ten minutes, he's suppose to be at their daily PR catch up. Charles is still in his bed. The first one he will miss this year.
As he stares at the frozen image of the two podcasters on his screen, he finally hits send on his text to Mia, informing her of his absence, with the notion that he needs to fully focus on the prep for the big meeting before lunch. The whole engineering team, aero, engine and even Horner will be joining this post-testing debrief.
It's not a full-on lie. He should be doing just that.
Instead, he presses play on the next analysis video.
Charles doesn't even notice the shift in his posture anymore. Half-sat up, shoulders rounded, thumb hovering over the screen. The next podcast auto-loads before he can stop it. Familiar faces. Words start blending into a mush.
Until they don't.
"You know what it feels like?" retorts the one of the hosts. He's wearing a vintage Ferrari shirt. "It's like watching someone try to smile through a car crash. Don't get me wrong, the season has not even started, but I just…He can't really win this one, can he? Unless he does win the title."
There is an awkward pause where the two share a look.
The host goes on, mercilessly. "Anything else will be put into the history books as a manual on how to murder your career. I think he really believes it's all going to work out."
The other one chuckles. Younger, smugger, possibly wearing pajama pants, which only add to the absurdity of Charles actually watching these videos.
"Of course he does. He's Charles Leclerc. If he didn't believe, he'd break. That's the thing about him, right? He always thinks the next step is the one. That man does not run out of hope."
Charles lets his head fall back against the wall. It makes a dull, solid sound. He closes his eyes. He's heard this exact sentence – about the never-ending hope – at least six times this week.
The Ferrari fan continues. "And you know what? I'll be here, cheering on him all the way. Even if there isn't a chequered flag at the end of his journey, but a wall."
"That would mean the car has actually started," the other one slams," which at this point – success."
They laugh. It's casual for one of them, off-hand, the kind of laugh that rolls downhill. The Ferrari fan laugh is laced with manic desperation.
Charles leans over to pick up the glass of water on the nightstand. It's been there since yesterday. He drinks it anyway. It tastes like furniture.
"Now, come off it!" the older one grins." Leclerc delulu train, I'm here for it. He might not be Ferrari anymore, and I will mourn for the rest of my life, " the host continues dramatically," but he is my prince!"
Charles snorts, almost involuntarily. It slips out. Too tired to stop it. Too tired to pretend he doesn't lowkey appreciate the loyalty. Because he can recognize the delusion in his eyes, as the same resides in his own.
"He surely is," the younger one laughs and then goes back to a more serious tone. His voice drops half a tone. Less entertainment, more verdict. "This move... it's either genius or it's career suicide. No middle ground."
Charles pauses the video.
He sits in that stillness for a moment. The words aren't cruel. They're not wrong, either.
But they're not the whole story.
He gets up slowly. Pads barefoot across the floor, picks up the Netflix phone from the desk where it's been charging untouched.
The Netflix crew had handed it to him with an offhand "For anything personal. No pressure."
He had smiled, nodded. Thought maybe he'd film something from a plane window. Something scenic. Cool life of an F1 driver.
But here he is. In sweatpants, unshowered, lying low in Milton Keynes, watching his face get torn apart by strangers who don't even dislike him – they just like the story more when he wins.
He picks up the phone. Walks over to the window. There's no view. Just a damp car park, the edge of the wind tunnel in the distance.
Flips the camera. His reflection stares back. Tired. Paler than usual. But eyes still sharp.
Hits record.
There's a long pause before he speaks. Just the sound of his breath, faint, steady.
"Hi guys…," he start and immediately shifts to sit more comfortably. "I'm here, in my Red Bull apartment…And we're about to finish the prep for the proper, real, testing session." He scratches his eyebrow. Avoids eye contact with himself on screen.
"The first one was… hmm. You know how it is. Sometimes the car is not ready. Sometimes you are not ready. It's normal. Still hard…"
He smiles faintly, one corner of his mouth lifting like he's remembering something no one else would find funny.
"Already, it feels like something big. I don't know how to explain. Something is in the air! It's a wild ride and I know me and the team will fight until the very end."
He hesitates, then keeps going.
"Of course, Ferrari... it is part of me. It will always be. I grew up there. I became the driver I am because of them. But..."
He exhales through his nose. The only thing he wants is for someone to understand. In fact, he's a bit desperate for it. So, he tries to fit it all in a smile.
"You cannot live in the same story forever, no?"
He looks off-camera for a second. His voice softens.
"I'm not recording this to convince anyone," he shakes his head to prove a point. "Not to say 'Look, I was right.'"
He pauses and waits for the right words to find him.
"I just... I want to remember. How it felt here. Before the real races. Before the results. When everything is still possible."
He presses his lips together.
"That's all. I just wanted to have this. When you're watching this, you already know how the season ended. I don't know what this season will be. Maybe good. Maybe a disaster."
He looks down for a moment, as if trying to see himself more clearly. Then back to the lens.
"But I hope... that even if it's terrible, even if it all goes wrong... I will still be proud that I tried.." He blinks once, then nods, as if giving future-him permission to feel proud either way.
He reaches out and ends the recording.
The phone screen goes black and Charles' chest feels a little lighter.
Charles did his best to arrive at the meeting with good attitude. Sat down in his apartment, regrouped, spent some time alone moaning internally about the injustice of the team's reaction to Max's blow out and did all the inner work possible to get over it fast.
He will need the team on his side. The privilege of being a bitching diva is granted only with time. Or a life time legacy – which is not an option, when Max Verstappen is sitting at the other end of the table.
So he shows up, with his part done and ready to present, should the opportunity arise. He spent a good part of the two days of break after they came back by analyzing his and Max's data, the little of what they'd managed to gather. While he's not an engineer, he can surely bring some of his hard earned expertize to the table.
He walks into the meeting room five minutes early. Just early enough to seem like a professional, not desperate. The engineers roll in together. GP nods at him but doesn't say much.
Max shows up right on time, with a smoothie and dark circles under his eyes, slouches into the seat opposite him without making eye contact. Even though Charles was expecting Max to join this meeting, being in the same room does something to his body. He does not notice it, or perhaps ignores it on purpose, but Charles sits up taller, eyes grown wider and his smiles are more controlled. While he consciously turns his head away from Max, his torso, his legs and fingertips all point towards the Dutch driver.
No pleasantries are shared, Charles makes sure to start a conversation with whomever is sitting next to him in an almost desperate attempt to kill the time before the start of the meeting. Just to appear busy enough so that he does not have to talk to Max.
Does he want to avoid him? Hell no. The opposite in fact. And in this setting, that might be a problem. So, deflection.
When Horner steps in, the room finally shifts and grows silent. Waiting for their team leader to set the course.
Christian eyes then all with the unreadable stare. Suspiciously kind, cold like the air hitting the windows from the outside.
"Alright," he begins. “Bahrain prep week. We're treating it as session one. Full speed, full reset. Let's go."
At first, Charles thinks he's hearing it wrong. He was expecting a detailed review of their first session – however brief or limited it had been. The engines, the stints, the overlays. Instead, the run plan for Bahrain is already up on the screens.
Almost as if Barcelona never happened.
People start talking like it's nothing unusual. He dares to glance over to Max, who also does not seem to be bothered by the direction of the meeting. He's listening to whoever is speaking, so Charles decides to do just as he is. The conversation moves in a straight line. No pondering, basically just statements knocking off each other.
"Aero has agreed. We're locking in v2 of the floor," someone chimes in. "More consistent across long corners. We'll build the test schedule around that."
"Engineers, you'll be getting updated cooling and battery maps tonight. Use only those. We're not referencing the previous set," says another.
Head of engine development doesn't even look up. "We're starting fresh."
Right. What the hell is this?
"I thought what I ran was the final spec," Charles says out of nowhere, a little too brightly. It probably comes a bit unexpected and he feels it – like his French laced English cuts through the tunes of native speakers in the room in a different frequency. Unshaken, he stands his ground.
"There were issues, sure, but we got decent thermal data from the long run. Isn't that useful?"
There's a pause. Just a second too long.
Then one of the HOD's offers a tight, managerial smile. "Some of it will inform future development. But for Bahrain, we're operating on a clean foundation."
He turns his head towards Horner, as a student does towards a teacher to confirm they're right.
"But I thought–" Charles starts, then stops when he sees Horner's stiff look. He lets out a short breath through his nose. "Alright. I understand."
He doesn't. Not really. But he gets the tone: not up for discussion.
It's hard to ignore Max's staring. His teammate is sitting across from him, seemingly drawn to whatever Charles began to say like a fly to a jar of sweet honey. It's like he's landed in a meeting spoken in a language no one taught him.
The conversation keeps moving. The tone is clinical, efficient. Charles tries to keep up – throws in a question about tire degradation under a specific fuel load, which gets half an answer from someone scrolling through telemetry. And quickly, it's back to the run plan for the following sessions and plans for the factory sim.
He thinks he's missed his window to contribute more.
Until there's a pause in the flow. A natural lull.
Charles clears his throat. There is a natural urge to speak his mind he can't seem to control.
"Sorry – if I can just add one thing," he says and the rooms stops again. Like every word he says disrupts a natural order. He pushes through this hunch.
"I went through my test race data and I found some patterns I thought might help with session planning."
Heads turn. One or two freeze mid-sip. There's no objection, but there's no encouragement either.
Horner nods, almost tired. "Alright. Go on."
Charles requests his screen to get projected onto the main monitor and after some awkward shuffle, one of the PA's gets it up and running. The only thing on his mind, weirdly, is the story of how George Russell sent Toto Wolff a presentation when he begged for a seat at Mercedes.
His heart is beating fast, when he realizes he feels just about the same level of agony.
What he's desperately trying not to say it this: We've got few good laps to learn from. Throwing this out of the window is stupid.
Charles makes a brief introduction of his findings. The basics the can all probably read from the data at a glance anyway. He's buying time to gain some confidence. For a moment, it almost works. He gets into a rhythm, full focus on his analysis.
"And in Max's stints, sector three was extremely well-balanced," he concludes and moves onto said sector.
Max spends the whole time looking down at the table, as if he's somewhere else, completely still. Then –slowly, as if woken up by the last sentence – he looks up. Not at Charles. At the screen. Charles talks, but even he himself is not listening.
"The response was smooth, even under high temperature. That tells me the final engine config handles better heat than expected, and if we can–"
Charles stops.
He's finally noticing it.
The room has gone quiet, but not the kind of quiet that listens. It's the kind of quiet that screams loudly.
And Charles sees it happen few second later then everyone else. A flicker. The shift behind Max's eyes. Realization.
Which quickly rolls into quiet anger. Horner and Max share a look, ignoring Charles completely. The whole room seems to understand what is happening. Once again, everyone apart from the new guy.
That's when Charles finally accepts something is off. Together with the way some of the team members are failing on rubbing their hands on their foreheads, the room starts caving in. Is Charles saying complete nonsense?
But he doesn't know what. Or why. Too easy of a target. Standing naked in front of them.
He continues, stumbling now. "–So I thought, maybe we can build the first run plan around that – mirror that structure. With the reset, it still gives us a place to start–"
Then Max pushes his chair back – hard. The legs screech against the floor. He grabs his smoothie and sips loudly.
The room jolts.
Max stands up, half-smiling in that empty, sharp way that means the opposite of smiling.
"I need some air," he says flatly. With that, he walks out.
The door shuts behind him with a sound just short of a slam.
Silence.
Every eye turns still. Not one voice moves to fill the space.
Horner's gaze stays on the meeting agenda like nothing happened. "Thank you, Charles. Can you put it in an email? We'll take a look."
Charles swallows. Tries to nod. His hands go cold.
"I'm sorry, I didn't–"
"Thanks, Charles," Horner says, lightly and definitely. "Brilliant insight. We'll take that under consideration."
Charles nods and closes his tablet a little too quickly. The screen slaps shut.
The meeting rolls on. Charles doesn't try to speak anymore. Or look anyone in the eye. In fact, he just like he did sometimes back at school. When he missed a class and failed to catch up, only for the rest of the room to think of him as the dumb racer.
It's particularly damning feeling when the thing he seems to be behind is actual racing.
His tablet still sits in front of him, dark. Useless. Like him.
The rest of the meeting rolls under the usual procedure. Numbers. Schedules. Updates.
Charles spends the rest of it wondering if he misunderstood the data. Or worse, if he misunderstood his role.
Max does not join the meeting again. Horner leaves the room early without any other word. Nobody addresses it.
It's a typical corporate nonsense. While this meeting brought some clarity on the future plan, the atmosphere became so stiff over the course of the session, that this one meeting ended up in dissolving into several other mini meetings.
People forming circles and lividly discussing details, some leaving the room for private gossip analysis and others just leaving, trying to forget the strange vibe as quickly as possible.
Charles is one of the latter. After one of the most embarrassing meetings of his life, he power walks towards his office.
Two floors up, he does not even have to try to overhear the screaming coming from the office next to his. With the doors closed, the lines are muffled, but neither of the parties arguing seems to be focused on trying to tone it down, or seek discretion.
Charles calmly sits down and listens to Max, who's apparently trying to win a shouting competition against Horner.
It's all useless talk, the kind of thing people who had spent too many years in each other presence throw around. Until Max says one thing. Well, yells.
"It's one thing falling behind the schedule. It's completely another to lie about it!"
Horner follows fast, in a cleverly controlled manner.
"Max, I will not take criticism from you like this. You don't have the context. You don't understand the limitations I'm under. You are the reason for all of this. Because your hot-head won't allow us to move silently!"
"Fuck you with this bullshit." Max's frustration perfectly contrasts Horner's ability to stay put.
"My point stands proven."
The voices lower, as if they just realized Charles might be in the next room.
He almost does not hear Max's next sentence:"You will lose Charles if you don't tell him. He is not dumb."
Equally quiet response follows. "I suggest you leave that up to me. Don't talk to him on your own about this. I'm saying this as your team principal."
With a pause, Max raises his voice again. "As you wish, my lord."
"Get off it, Max. Come on," Christian ends with a loud slam of the door.
Something in Charles acts before he can really think it though. He reaches over for his massive headphones laying in his desk and puts them on. No music. Just the pressure. Sits on a couch and pretends to be interested in his phone.
A knock. Sharp, expected. He does not react.
Then a second later, the door creaks open.
And there he is. Christian Horner, doing that thing where he acts like he's not already halfway through the conversation in his head.
Charles pretends to be surprised by his presence and pulls the headphones down slowly. Folds them with unnecessary care.
"Charles. Here you are," Horner says, too brightly. "Would you care to join me in my office for a little chat?"
The answer stays at tip of his tongue for a second. He's learning not to rush the pauses anymore. In Milton Keynes, silence has a longer shelf life.
Finally, he nods. "Sure."
And he follows his team principal. Feeling like he's about to get scolded, just like Max. With the potentially more privacy. How generous.
As he follows Horner out, something lingers with every step they make. A strange stillness in his office, like the moment before a storm. The air tastes like metal.
Charles reminds himself that he is not a little school boy. An adult, experienced driver who needs to stand his ground.
Max spends the next few minutes trying to cool himself down in the supposed safety of his office. Like he planned, after his storm out from the meeting, only to get graced with Horner's presence again.
Once he is finally gone, Max can breathe freely and only one mug falls victim to his suppressed rage.
The sheer audacity this team has.
Not only do they keep Charles, one their drivers, in the dark about the engine situation. They also allow him to sit in an entirely different meeting than he thinks is happening, and the worst of all – they let him talk in front of room of people who know what's actually going on.
Second hand embarrassment does not cover what Max's experiencing. It's pure disrespect that's getting out of hand with every passing day. Charles is his rival, but this is crossing a line he didn't know existed. With every day this corporate game goes on, Max feels deeper and deeper in a pit he never wished to see from the inside.
In his opinion, he was doing far too good of a job keeping it in during the meeting. That is, of course, until he saw Charles presenting his hypothesis based on Max's data from the test. It took him few seconds to put two and two together.
That was not Max's telemetry. In fact, the whole thing was fabricated, presumably to shut Charles up.
Fake data. They'd stooped to the lowest of lows and Max nearly quit on the spot when Horner came to search for him.
Second mug ends up smashed on the wall.
Morning is rolling into the afternoon and Max is late for his session with GP, but even though they were supposed to start thirty minutes ago, nobody is searching for him. The message is clear.
That's why, when there's a knock on his door, he's not expecting anyone other that Horner again. One extra meaningless fight is not something that he needs right now.
"I'm busy!" he calls to the door and clenches his fist, the mere reminder of the face of his team boss riling up the bile in his throat again.
A soft voice speaks from the other side of the door. "Max. Can we talk?"
Deep breath he had no idea he's been holding leaves his chest. New emotions enters the room – weird mixture of dread and guilt.
Charles.
The second to last person he wants to speak to. Simply because he's so far down in his anger spiral he's got no idea what might come out of his mouth. He leaves it hanging in the air, without a response. Hoping Charles gets the hint quickly. Foolish idea.
"I want to apologize."
Max's heart sinks. The last person that needs to apologize, in fact the only one in this building that shouldn't, comes by first. Again with the determination that seems to be impossible to kill.
Charles has a talent for ironic tragedy.
There is only one thing that Max can say.
"Come in," he invites him, defeated.
Charles opens the door like it might be hot. He steps in, slow and cautious, the way you do when entering a room with a wild animal – his eyes flash over to the shattered fragments of what used to be a Red Bull coffee cup. Max can feel embarrassment rising in his face, but thankfully, Charles does not comment. His shoulders are set too straight, and Max can tell instantly: he's trying not to look ashamed.
"Hey," Charles says, and then immediately adds, "I'm not here to... I mean, I know you don't owe me anything. I just–"
Max waves a hand and turns away from him. "Close the door."
The handle clicks and Max swears he hears Charles gulp, while he fights the mush of thoughts meddling his own brain.
"I just wanted to say–" Charles begins, but Max cuts in before he can continue.
"Don't. Please, just…Don't." He's had enough of watching Charles sing a song he does not know the meaning off.
It's already too much that that they are alone in the room. That is all Max needs these days to lose control over his words. He takes a breath and tries his best to steer this conversation away from Charles fucking apologizing again. He's standing there with this sheepish, kind and almost guilty look on his face and fiddling with one of the rings on his finger and something about it is killing him. Max takes a deep breath and stares at the ground.
"You don't deserve this," he begins and prays it lands well. He bites his lip and turns around to look at Charles properly.
Max used to envy Charles' composure. Now he sees it for what it is. A mask with just enough cracks to let the humiliation show through.
And still, he came here. To this room. To him. To apologize.
Max swallows. He wants to scream. Shake him by the shoulders until the light comes back.
Still, his teammate continues. "It was unfair of me. I should have discussed this with you before. Presenting your data, without your prior knowledge, is not proper."
This is not Charles' sentence. It has corporate rules written all over it. Charles speaks differently. Max would know, he spent years listening to him. Be it during post race haze, energetic and high or be in in secret, when masking watching his interviews as 'studying the competition'.
Max needs to know just how deep the fingers of their team principle twist. He asks the next question without any blame. Just passive.
"Did Horner send you?"
Color returns back to Charles' face. Not his usual bright self yet, but something is back.
"Sort of," Charles says and Max can tell that's not true. So he lets it without a reaction.
Once it's obvious to both of them, Charles corrects himself. "Kind of. Well, he actually said I should give you space and avoid talking to you. In fact, he was very clear about it."
He lifts his chin a little as he says it, like he's daring Max to call him out. There's a flicker of something close to a smile. Defeated, sure, but proud too. "So here I am. Doing the opposite."
It's said so plainly it disarms Max. No corporate polish. Just Charles, raw and unapologetic.
Max smiles. There is still hope for this crazy, naive man. "Good."
He looks out of the window again, mainly to hide his grin away from Charles. "You have my official permission to do whatever the fuck you want with my data," he proclaims, almost theatrically. "I don't mind."
It dissolves the tension a bit.
"Are you sure? You seemed pretty mad in the–"
"I'm not mad at you, Charles."
"Do you trust me enough to tell me what made you leave?"
Max has to admire the talent for accidentally asking the right question.
"I think there is no other choice if we are to spend this year as teammates."
Charles is different than others. He won't crumble under the weight of Max's footprint. Won't tail around Max, asking for advice, or stubbornly refusing to ask questions due to some inferiority complex.
No, he there is obvious mutual respect. The closest thing to an equal he has.
His younger self would probably punch him, if he witnessed what Max is about to do.
Makes it all that much thrilling. Defying Red Bull's orders, direct instructions of his team principal and, perhaps most notably, whatever grudge his teenage self held against Charles.
Charles stands silent, clearly familiar with the way Max pauses before he finally takes the leap. Giving him obvious space for his own move, something he would never do on a track. There is some strange poetic irony in this all, Max thinks, as he tries to avoid drowning in the greenish eyes. Here goes nothing and everything.
"They are lying to you, Charles. That was not my data."
The strike is deliberate. He watches Charles take it in, and for the first time, he doesn't try to soften the blow. Let him feel it, Max thinks. Let it land.
The insult, the manipulation, the setup. Because maybe then he'll finally stop trying to play nice with people who will never treat him as equal.
He's probably never seen Charles unravel in real time. Clogs turning in his head, sour expression residing on his pretty face. Sharp, cautious.
"Why are they keeping your data away?"
Charles' voice is careful now. Less calculated, more confused – the tone of someone who is starting to feel the smoke of the secret fire in his nose. Disbelief written all over his face. But lacking any hint of a surprise. Proving that he has seen his fair share of these games.
"They are not," Max clarifies, fully focused on Charles' reaction. "They just gave you a completely made up sheet. So that you wouldn't figure it out. I guess you should take pride in them knowing you're smart enough to do that."
The calmness of his own voice almost surprises Max. Stark contrast to the way he just screamed at Horner.
Charles sits down on the couch.
Not like someone taking a seat in a room – like someone sinking into the weight of it all. Shoulders sinking, jaw stuck in a frown that does not look good on him. He folds his hands together, resting them on his knee like he needs the anchor. Like if he doesn't, something will spill out – anger, embarrassment, whatever emotion's currently pressing its thumb against his throat.
He speaks like he can't believe it. "You're serious."
“I wouldn't joke about this," Max says, deadpan. "And if I did, it wouldn't be this bad."
There's a silence, thick as fog. Charles stares at the floor between them.
"They gave me fake telemetry," he repeats in a quiet voice, small in a way Max has never heard before. Not soft like defeat, but soft like he's trying to swallow something sharp.
Max watches him. The pity morphs into something else. Something more dangerous. Protective, maybe. He doesn't like this version of Charles – hollow, folded, folded in on himself like he's taking up too much space just by existing. He also doesn't like to assume the position of Charles' protector. That menace of a man hardly needs him, once he has the full picture.
Which is the one thing Max can give him.
"They gave you fake data," Max says again, slower this time. "And let you walk into that room with it."
Charles exhales. "And you knew."
Max nods. He tries to say the next sentence with as much softness as possible. "Everyone did. Took me a second. Once you started pointing out the patterns that didn't exist… yeah."
Charles rubs his eyes and Max looks away, feeling sudden rush of guilt about observing something too intimate. The moment stretches and Max fights the urge to go and dissolve the tension with sarcastic comments. Instead, he stares out the window and tries to gather up a decisive tone.
"I can show you real data on a sim. We can talk about it, try some things and share inputs," Max proposes and ends up saying it more like when somebody is set to console someone, rather than push them.
Charles doesn't seem to mind. "Will the sim show anything relevant?"
The pure defeat in Charles' voice makes Max's stomach turn. It brings out an urge to find a way, to make it somewhat right.
To at least try. How long will it take for them to mold Charles into whatever they want?
"Not the one here," he concludes. "Mine will. It's not ideal, but currently the best option. Come to Monaco with me and we can try. I have the set up info from the factory people, they gave it to me–"
"I don't wanna go to Monaco."
His body languages changes immediately. More defensive, firm and strict. It takes Max by surprise.
"What? What do you mean?" he asks, failing to see why he'd be so opposed to the idea.
Charles takes his time replying. He's fiddling with the sleeve of his dark hoodie and refusing to meet Max's eye.
"Home sim is shit, Max," he reasons finally and his lips form a straight line.
The thing is that he is right, Max can't argue with that. But they sort of don't have any other option. "Well, we can't do it here. They would know immediately."
He's not being paranoid. The last time he ran a rogue sim setting inside the Red Bull compound, it took them six minutes to flag it. And that was before this new era of surveillance. He glances at Charles, who's still stuck somewhere between doubt and resignation.
"We don't have to go to my sim, we can use yours, if you wish to," Max bargains and finds it strange that he somehow ended up in a position where he is the one convincing Charles to do this. In a way, this is much more helpful for Charles, than to Max.
"No," Charles dismisses a little too quickly and sighs like an old man. "My place is getting renovated."
Max is not sure how to react. For some reason the way he says it raises an alarm. Nothing Charles has said recently has even remotely been connected to the topic of renovation. Another proof of the distance between them, the one that Max loves to ignore. Casually cruel reminder.
"Okay?"
It's like Charles does not hear him. Locked in his own world.
When Max does not say anything else, Charles puts a hand over his face and mumbles: "Fine."
Another sigh. "Let's go to Monaco."
Notes:
next chapter is one that started this whole journey...couldn't be more excited <3
Chapter 13: A Trophy for Every Lie
Summary:
Max pushes and pushes and pushes.
Until Charles follows the same fate as the engine and explodes too.
Notes:
i fail to see how i could make the concept of an apartment renovation more dramatic than this.
this chapter and the two ones following it should be read in one sitting, just a life tip
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There are definitely worse things than taking a private jet to fly home from work over the weekend.
Charles realizes that.
Yet right now, he wishes he could just sulk back in the safety of his faux home in Milton Keynes. Take the bus there like a normal person and order soggy pizza from the place down the street.
But no, he is sentenced to experience the comfort of a premium leather seat on his way to the richest country in Europe.
Yes, he knows how ungrateful it sounds.
Max's sudden excitement, which appeared out of nowhere, does not help. He's waving his hands, as he talks at great length about the recent success of his sim race team. The thing with Max is that when he talks like this, fully dove into the topic, it's sort of as if he talks onto someone, instead of a normal conversation. For once, Charles appreciates the lack of need of a response.
As the plane finally speeds up on the runway and starts to gain elevation, it all finally leaves his body. This weird tension that's been holding his chest tightly for the past few days. The mask, the one hiding the truth from himself, starts to crumble.
He realizes just how tired he is. So, so tired. It's all too much, not enough, everyone speaks too loudly and acts too slow.
Everything is new and nothing seems to be clicking into place.
It's in that existential despair, right when the plane reaches the right altitude and stops pulling pressure off their bodies, when Max cracks joke so dumb it actually makes Charles snarl.
And my god, is it a stupid one, Charles thinks. Some weird comment, technical observation on the shape of the plane's wings.
It doesn't even make sense. But Max says it with such conviction, complete with a grin that shows too much teeth and not enough shame, that Charles lets out an involuntary noise. Somewhere between a scoff and a groan.
Yet, it does work, he does laugh and Max seems to be all that much content and smug about achieving so.
Perhaps it's not all new and not clicking into place. Annoyingly, one thing seems to be.
He's still biting the inside of his cheek when Max quiets down at last and leans back, folding his arms behind his head like he's just won something. And maybe he has.
Charles doesn't know how it started – this... thing. This softness between inside his chest. It moves smoothly through the air like a radio frequency.
He notices Max watching him and turns away, a second too late to hide the smile that breaks across his face.
Not fast enough to pretend that for a single second, he didn't want this flight to stretch just a little longer. Because it's actually pleasant. Safe. Even if it's built on borrowed time. Even if it'll all dissolve the moment the lights go out in Bahrain.
He still wants this moment.
But that's because they're not racing yet. The first chequered flag is putting a defining mark on this – whatever this is.
For one tiny second, Charles catches himself wishing they weren't Leclerc and Verstappen. Just Charles and Max. Not these high-profile athletes, but perhaps just two random guys managing a small karting team.
With all the passion, competition. Stripped of the million dollar deals laying on their shoulders and the weight of some sort of mark on history they're all so inevitably obsessed with.
If it weren't for that, perhaps Charles would casually ask Max out and shamelessly revel in the way he blushes. But that would not be them. These two might exist in some other dimension. As much as he hates it, he is still Charles Leclerc and no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, his daydreams keep coming back to Max Verstappen.
This might just be the biggest act of self-sabotage his brain has ever come up with.
But it's hard to blame his mind. Just look at Max. He is the peak of cuteness, talking so relentlessly, one would think it's his last day on Earth. His lisp, less prevalent than in the past, mixing with the strange accent.
The sunlight cuts across his face in slices, catching the edge of his cheekbone and the curve of his mouth, like nature itself is trying to highlight the most distracting parts. His eyes are bright when he talks, too bright for how little sleep they've both gotten lately. His hair is doing that thing – sticking up slightly at the crown, like he's been running a hand through it all morning without realizing.
There's something unreasonably endearing about it.
Charles shifts in his seat and looks out the window before his brain starts entertaining the idea that this flight could ever be anything more than professional. He digs his fingers deep into the seat handle.
God help him.
The lull of safety fades with every mile they get closer to Monaco. Even Max's smile looses its spark and the two people exiting the plane look very much different than those who got in.
The source of Max's rise of dread is obvious – they are not on a courtesy trip. The goal is to discuss the unspoken. The puzzle is missing few pieces and Charles knows it. It's apparent that Max is not sharing anything outside of the walls of his own house. Hence the impromptu weekend trip.
One of the main worries their managers and Red Bull had, prior to Charles' signing, was how these two drivers will navigate their relationship as teammates. Whatever this secret scheming is becoming was probably not on the minds of anyone.
However, the cab ride from Nice to Monte Carlo is silent. The coastline view and the familiarity of it hits different tonight.
Coming home, to Monaco, is not suppose to feel this draining. It's not suppose to make Charles want to crawl out of his skin, hide behind a cap and pray for Sunday evening to arrive.
Arriving at Max's building, nodding of to the concierge while he tails behind the Dutch driver and entering the elevator together is a whole new level of weird.
A strange kind of wrong. Charles' heart should not be beating this fast, like he's doing something forbidden.
Kind of like skipping few steps. He figured this could happen at some point, them being teammates and all, it would be a lie to say he hasn't toyed with the idea of discovering what Max's sheets feel like against his skin…But this isn't that sort of evening.
Charles can't pinpoint when, but somewhere along the line, it started spiraling out of his control.
The biggest mystery of them all is standing right next to him. Anything could be going on in Max's head. Charles wishes he could cut it open and just take a quick look. There is a game at play, but no clues to decipher into what the current rules are.
Charles follows, instinctively quiet, trying not to make too much noise in the hallway. It feels like he's breaking curfew.
Max unlocks the door, pushes it open with his hip, and gestures inside like it's nothing.
Anything but nothing for Charles.
He's been avoiding Monaco for months, telling himself it was strategy. Easier to stay near the factory. Better for the schedule. He could say he was too busy to come back, that it was just logistics. That's what he's been telling his family.
There's something humiliating about it.
He walks in further, carefully, like the floor might collapse under the pressure of it all.
Charles hovers awkwardly. The space is quiet, but full of context. He's never been here before, not really. He's seen glimpses – snippets from Max's streams, few horrifying photos of Max working out on his balcony. Standing in it feels like something else entirely.
It's too much. It's not enough. The last time he was in Monaco, he was still technically a Ferrari driver and still pretending that meant something. Now he's standing in his teammate's flat, carrying the weight of too many half-truths and the Red Bull logo attached to his name.
"You want a beer, or are we doing this sober?" Max calls out.
"Beer," Charles answers, too fast. Too eager for the buffer of it.
Max leaves him standing in the living room alone and Charles does not even have to fake his interest in the interior design. Anything that can ease the anxiety rising in his chest is a welcomed distraction.
He drifts further in, unsure whether he's meant to sit, to stand, to speak.
The apartment is still, but not empty. Lived in, not messy. Cold, but not from lack of care – just too quiet, like it's waiting for something to happen.
There's a jacket thrown over the edge of the couch, a tablet charging face-down on the coffee table. On the wall, a wide photo frame holding three pictures: one of Max on a boat, one with his father, and one – Charles has to do a double take – is of Max and Daniel Ricciardo mid-laugh, sprayed with champagne.
His eyes scan for anything familiar, anything else, to hold on to – and there it is. Loud, lavish, impossible to ignore.
The trophies.
A full wall of them, in fact. Reflecting the dim light like they were polished yesterday. Some lined up with surgical precision, others clearly tossed aside to make room for new additions. Too many they barely fit inside anymore. It's almost absurd. This it the kind of wall only someone like Max could have. Someone who never doubts his place in the world.
Under the weight of it, Charles feels small. Reading the numbers describing Max's records, is one thing. Memories of the mundane certainty Max ruled over with the 2024 season are another. Fade easier that whatever Charles is staring at right now. He's good with moving forward…Unless there is a physical proof.
It's an influx of complicating emotions that contradict each other.
Hint of healthy jealousy. A sharp hit of loss for the version of himself that once thought he'd be standing in front of a wall like this too.
But, most importantly, strangely, an ounce of pride growing in his chest. Pride, that Max, the little awkward boy, too aggressive for his own good, the one he remembers from their youth, really got up and made it.
Sure, there is the crippling unfairness of Max getting the car of the decade, but still. Many others had sat by his side, in the same machinery, and compared to Max, failed.
Charles won't have to endlessly wonder anymore whether he belongs to the group of those Max crushes. While many might find that scary, Charles almost begs in that moment for the season to just finally start and see.
The trophies stare back at him, like they are viciously loyal to their owner.
Who knows what will happen with these once they're all dead and gone. Charles imagines generations and generations of Max's relatives passing down this impossible inheritance. Maybe they'll decide to keep it all in one place, create a museum with his name tag. Or they'll divide it between themselves. A piece of Max in every household tied to him.
If everyone got to keep just one trophy, it might be enough for five generations after Max. He does not even dare to do the math.
None of those people would ever get this close. Not to the journey. Not to the boy behind the trophies. That thought, at least, Charles holds onto.
Max reappears, holding two beers by the neck and falters for a moment when he catches sight of Charles standing by the trophies. Something washed over his face and if Charles were brave enough, he'd almost call it guilt.
"No glasses," Max says and plays it cool, like he usually does. "We're not that kind of couple."
Charles gives him a hard look. The unexpected joke stings on its own, and perhaps even more if Max knows that it does. Still, he takes the bottle anyway.
It clinks against Max's, and for a second, they don't say anything.
Charles doesn't know why he asks. Maybe to break the silence. Maybe because it feels less dangerous than asking something real.
"Which one's your favorite?" he says, nodding toward the wall.
Max follows his gaze. For a moment, he seems to consider the question seriously. Walks over. Passes the titles. Passes the constructors'. Stops at a squat little trophy, half-hidden behind a larger one.
He doesn't need to say from which race. Charles will have that trophy burned in his memory forever.
"Austria," Max says. "2019."
Of course Max would pick that one. Both of them know it's probably not true. But there is some sort of lightness in the way they both seem to remember. The time Max stole away Charles' first win.
Max gives him a look, packed with expectation, like someone testing the waters.
"Dickhead," Charles scoffs, letting his amusement be known.
It still stings, but not so much as it did all those years back. Maybe one day he'll be able to explain to Max just how much that race changed him for good. Well, worse.
"It was a fun day." Max taps the bottle with his knuckle. "Also, it pissed a lot of people off. Felt nice."
Charles lets out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. He knows exactly what Max means.
It works. Charles appreciates the tension release.
Sadly, he's not granted much of that today.
"So you're saying your place is getting renovated?" Max blurts out and catches Charles completely off guard.
Max was never good at making casual small talk and Charles does not want to elaborate on his white lie.
"Yeah," parrots the trusted lie and waves his hand off , as if to downplay it. Accompanies this by an eye-roll.
He's met back with a thoughtful nod and another restless question. "I thought it was new when you got it?"
Head tilted to right, Max does a terrible job at hiding the fact he sees right through Charles.
"That's not –"
"What was it, two years ago? I remember you talking about the bathroom marble nonstop."
Why is he making this harder than it needs to be?
"Max, I'm not here to talk real estate with you." He tries to keep it nonchalant. Like it's not a big deal. "Tell me about the car."
Max puts his hands up in defense. Turns the page.
"I know you think I'm being dramatic," he says, finally. "But I need you to see what I saw. Not the version we're being fed."
Max looks at him with that glint in his eyes, that fools Charles into believing he's actually worth the hustle. But he knows he's just seeing a mirage.
Almost is the slowest kind of a tragedy.
Charles takes a sip, lets the bitterness of the beer drag his focus anywhere but inward. He doesn't want to think about how familiar the view from the balcony is or how the neatly kept tangle of X Box cables creates an image of Max laughing in his down time and how that instantly reminds him that his piano has been sitting in his apartment, untouched for weeks.
Charles grabs the opportunity of an excuse to focus on anything else. And not the way his mind is making a big deal about being in Max's home like a life line.
"So," he takes a breath, hoping it will help him get the words stuck in his throat out, "Can we finally…?" He sounds like a child.
Max turns to face him, seemingly intrigued by the tone of his voice. Being seen is making it all that much worse for Charles. Max opens his mouth and the smile suggests he's about to hit him with a joke, but then he stops himself and swallows whatever crossed his mind first.
"Sure."
Charles nods, because what else is he suppose to do now? He loathes not knowing. Being made fool publicly in front of the team. Max seems to be the only one stepping to speak to him directly.
Without even trying, he's got him cornered, at his whim. One can only imagine just how much this drives Charles insane.
"Do you want to see it?" Max asks, finally.
Charles asks just say something. "See what?"
"The data. Properly. No filters, no corporate shit." Max crosses his arms. "Just as it really is."
Charles tilts his head, still cautious. "What do you mean?"
Max shrugs. "The factory sim isn't neutral anymore. What you're given to test is already decided before you even sit down. They're not showing you what's failing. They're showing you what they hope will work."
Charles frowns and prays this is the last surprise of the day. "You say that like it's fact."
"It is," Max says. Direct, sharp. "That sector three balance you were so obsessed about? Not real. Not for me, not for you."
Charles stares at him. The air thins.
"I knew something was off," he lies and does not even know why. Max gives him a nod of approval, and it should not make Charles feel like this. Wrong, yet proud.
"I'm surprised the test drivers hadn't figured it out," Max shrugs and avoids eye contact. "I knew instantly."
It's hard to shake off the suspicion there are two liars standing Max's living room.
"You didn't drive the car they told you you did," he adds simply. "That was a prototype."
Charles narrows his eyes. That idea already came to him when he stared at the ceiling after coming back to from the factory after the fruitful Monday. "And you?"
Max smiles, but it’s not kind. "They added some drive assist system shit to mine. Without telling me."
Charles' prayers will go unanswered today. "What?"
"Throttle delay, automatic shift gear and all that crap. Barely perceptible. I thought I was imagining it."
This is bad. Really, really bad.
Thanks to a series of particularly traumatizing lessons in the past, Charles has learned long time ago that in the world of racing, ignoring problems during development only makes ten multiply by ten once the season starts.
He's seen a lot of deceptive tactics in the past being used against sponsors when issues were still on the way of being resolved. The thing he never expected to encounter was hiding problems from the drivers…In fact, he recalls many times when the whole weight of a shit car got thrown on his shoulders, along with the on-track engineering team.
Figure it out, you're our only hope.
Red Bull managed to put a name on a nightmare he could have never recalled once he's awake.
Across from him stands Max Verstappen, multiple world champion – and even he is kept in the dark. Sickening to even try and imagine the magnitude of things being deliberately kept away from Charles, the new guy. The other driver, who does not have a title to his name.
The dread of losing a common ground under his feet by leaving Ferrari had been somewhat expected. A complete lost of faith, that there is still any real passion left in the sport, comes as an unwelcome guest.
Quickly, he flashes through the last few weeks, trying to look for connections he might have missed.
Charles exhales, slow. "That's why you–"
"Yeah," Max replies, relief spreading over his face. "That's why I blew it up."
Silence. For the first time ever, Charles fears he can physically feel the gravity pulling him into the core of the Earth.
"Why won't they just tell us?" Charles wonders out loud.
Max finally looks at him. "It's fucking illegal and they know I would stop it, if I could…" He glances away, just for a second, toward the trophies glinting on the far wall. His voice drops. "And they don't know if you'll play by their rules yet."
"You also don't know that." Still, he's here, sharing secrets that could get him banned. There is a worry inside Charles' chest, that he's still not grasping the importance of Max acting so openly.
Max has an empty, colorless look in his eyes. "Correct."
Overwhelmed, instead of asking the question, Charles just raises his eyebrows. Out of any push back, resistance and in this second, even hope.
Max sighs. "I'll start the sim up," he says, somewhat defeated.
Figure it out. No one else is going to.
Unlike entering Max's apartment, coming into his sim room is ridiculously underwhelming. Mainly for the context. Two drivers of one the most iconic F1 teams should not be testing a new regulation car on a simulator that any overachieving fan with too much money on their hands could have at home.
Charles watches Max setting the machine up, failing to keep his skeptical frown private.
It's a small room, way more cluttered than the rest of the apartment. The only somewhat clean space is the direct eye line of the camera Max uses for streaming, otherwise it's a mix of boxes, unopened merch and random objects scattered around. A small trophy, which Charles recognizes as a second place trophy from last year's Jeddah race. It stings, knowing that his own trophy from that race, one step below Max's stands proudly in Charles' trophy cabinet. While the more valuable one is tossed away like something of no significance.
Deep breath, instead of a sigh. New season, new car, new story. This time, he and Max will share the same pen. Finally.
Instead, he focuses on Max. There's something boyish in the way he sits, legs spread, hair sticking up in that unruly way again, posture terrible. He looks nothing like a world champion right now. More like a kid in his bedroom, lost in a video game. No one here to interrupt this mundane moment. He sits down into the sim chair without waiting for an invitation.
Max, unaware of Charles' tendency of losing train of thought every five seconds in his apartment, starts explaining his theory on how the car really behaves this year and loads on the Bahrain circuit. Charles listens passively, for the second time that day.
"Only an idiot would break this early," Max comments loudly, more than necessary, and shakes his head in deep disappointment. It startles Charles so much he nearly bins it in the next turn.
The wheel jerks, Charles groans, and for a second Max feels triumphant – until the flash of annoyance crosses Charles' face and settles into something quieter. Concentrated.
Of course it's already a mess.
They barely fired the sim up and it's already a stir. It took ten minutes of bickering over which track to test until they finally landed on agreement. Stuck again before the test lap reached turn six.
Max is not nervous, per se. Sure, he prepared for the vision of Charles standing in his apartment, made sure to call his cleaners over (twice). All of this under the notion of keeping some level of decor up in front of his teammate.
Like with any other room Charles enters, he commanded Max's private space immediately. The brightest element around.
Now, he's sitting in his favorite sim chair and it does not feel even feel alarming. Which in itself is wrong on its own, so understandably, Max is having a bit of a trouble of controlling his impulses.
Fingers wrapped around the wheel like he's always known the exact grip. His neck slouched the wrong way, the one Max's dad would always scold him for. Wearing those ridiculous glasses.
It should feel invasive. Instead, it feels like static electricity running under Max's skin.
Charles had insisted on getting the first run in, so now Max is hovering over his shoulder, looking at the curved screen, trying to ignore the allure of Charles' cologne.
And to make matters worse – Charles is completely wrong about this turn.
"If you don't break, you ruin your entry into the next corner, honestly, this is just basic racing, I can't believe –"
Max cuts in before he can combust.
"You do, but –"
He plants a hand on the back of the seat to steady himself, leans in, just a bit. The chair tilts and he feels Charles tense almost imperceptibly beneath him. "It's better for the corner after the next. So my point about this being an idiotic move stands. Also–"
He's halfway through his next sentence when Charles jumps in. "That's not – wait…"
Max continues, relentlessly. "What you lose is less than what you gain at breaking late, the apex-"
"Shut up for a second, Max, I am thinking."
Max pulls back, raises both brows. "Oh well, sorry…"
He drags a hand through his hair and takes a step back, arms raised like he's forced to surrender to something much more important than logic. "Let's honor that special occasion with a minute of silence."
Charles ignores him. Loudly. Suddenly locked in some sort of deep thought, staring at the track map, like it's the first time he's seeing it. It's sort of maddening, since Max is clearly right.
"I don't think you're right," Charles speaks quietly, focused and like almost can't believe it himself.
Max rolls his eyes but doesn't go for the kill shot.
He could say Three wins here, Charles. You? None.
But he swallows it. Chooses diplomacy.
"I see. Thinking doesn't do much good for you, huh."
Max's version of diplomacy probably does not meet the usual standards.
It goes completely over Charles, who seems to be locked in some sort of a trance. Fingers tapping the radio button, eyes locked on the screen and were he not responding to Max's sentences, he'd have to wonder whether Charles still remembers that Max is standing behind him.
"I want to test this. Both of us on track," he finally says, voice full of fascination.
Max tries to stop this nonsense. "We are suppose to be doing the new car runs, not basic racing school," he says, still under strong suspicion whatever genius plan he thinks he has won't work.
Charles turns his head up to observe Max. Lips curling into the smile Max is starting to hate. Because using this tactic is cruel from Charles. Under this angle, he looks so innocent. "You sound like you're scared I'm right."
There are stars in his eyes that Max tries to ignore.
"No, I'm scared your dementia is starting early."
As per usual, Charles does not take the bite. He looks back at the screen and grips the wheel tighter. "We can fit few race laps before the proper test. Like a warm up. Hm?"
"Hm?" Max mimics in a mocking tone.
"Where is your other sim?"
"Broken."
Charles pauses. Tilts his head slightly like he’s trying to be delicate, which means he's about to be a menace. "How?"
"That is not important."
"Max…?" Charles draws it out like it's a soft reprimand, like he's talking to a kid caught sneaking biscuits before dinner.
Max crosses his arms, hard. "Do not 'Max' me."
Charles leans back slightly in the seat, hands still on the wheel, smile creeping in. "Silly angry boy. Did you smash it after a bad run?"
"No."
Lie and they both seem to know it.
Charles hums. "Ah. Nevermind. Now we will never find out I was actually right."
"No, you're not." Max steps around the sim chair like it's the source of all his problems.
"I am!" Charles calls after him, amused. "And the data will prove it. Unless you plan on breaking this sim too!"
Max stops. Fucking fine then. Let him have his way.
"Okay – let's test it!"
For what is worth, Max will happily show him he's wrong, if he saying it is not enough. "You got two sims at home, don't you?"
Charles' smile drops. He turns away and his energy falls low, abrupt like an avalanche.
"I said it already, my home is being renovated–" he goes on again, like a broken record, but Max is faster. Faster than his own filter.
"–And I don't believe you."
There it is. For all the intention of avoiding and bickering, Max abort that idea with a rapid speed. That he can just brush this strange spike of intuition away. He can't. It's clear now he won't.
Sometimes, Max first says things before he realizes he actually means them. Well, this one is out of the bag. It's different now. Charles must feel it too.
Max goes still, expecting a blow back. The goal now seems to be push Charles' buttons and get to the bottom of a strange inkling that has been bothering Max since their conversation in the office.
He's been thinking about this almost obsessively. Charles residing in Milton Keynes, like he's running for Citizen of the Year. His strange decision to stay in London that one time. Max suddenly not running into him by accident anymore in the one gym in Monaco that does cryotherapy. Since December.
One could almost say Charles doesn't live here anymore. Has he moved?
Charles also goes still. Silent, taken back, kicked out of the rhythm. Same face he probably has when he has to abort a lap. Max feels like he just broke a very expensive vase by looking at it wrong.
"Whatever Max. Let's just…Let's just do what we planned. Focus on that. No distractions."
It can hardly be considered no distractions when Charles is wearing those glasses again and has that annoying face on when he lies.
He is being too nice to Max today, too easy to push back. Something is off.
"You're going to have to respect me if we want to try and figure this out," Charles whispers into the silence.
This takes Max completely off guard…Resp–How–How can Charles doubt that Max trusts his opinion?
Okay fine, maybe he's wrong about a turn here or there. But no other teammate ever got a personal invitation to break the team instructions in the safety of Max's home.
Inner maturity kicks in and he manages to stop himself from bursting his minor outrage out loud.
If Charles thinks that, Max must have not expressed his opinions in a way that lands with him.
He makes sure not to talk back. Takes it in and vows to trying better in the future.
"Okay," he reacts, calmly and sincerely. Like every extra word would cause a blow back.
Charles reloads the session with no other comments and they embark on what they set out to do in the first place.
Analyze the car they're both stuck with.
Peace sets in for the next hour or so. Deep concentration interrupted only by the occasional silent mental breakdown Max has to endure due to the fact that Charles is actually doing this with him. Looking like he's having a good time. Max catches himself smiling a little to honestly, little too often. The only thing that throws his off is the one time Charles leans over, face almost resting on Max's shoulder and breath hitting his collarbone.
They switch places and unlike Charles, Max talks and describes every move or gear shift he makes, providing context based on all the knowledge he has of Red Bull cars. Fascinated and patient, occasionally Charles counters with his findings from Ferrari.
The thrill of the chase for answers fades out rapidly. They keep trying new approaches, different gear shift option and nothing, nothing seems to bring them any extra time.
Then they switch once more. This time Max watches him from behind, arms folded. Charles' inputs are just slightly off: braking too early in some corners, too late in others. Not that it's a skills issues – it's the fact he had been driving a car with a completely different philosophy and set up for nearly a decade. His aggressive style follows him, but it's all still clumsy. It quickly turns from a session of a new car exploration to simple catch up with the car at hand. Because. it's obvious there is still so much for Charles to get under his skin before he can go out and compete on his full capacity.
Max probably shouldn't. Without saying anything, he steps in. Quiet, decisive. He raises a hand and, at the next braking zone, presses his fingertips into the narrow space between Charles' neck and shoulder. Just enough pressure to signal the timing, just enough contact to get under his skin.
Charles shivers at first – only slightly – but doesn't tell him to stop.
Max does it again. Same spot, next lap. A silent instruction. Brake now. His fingers lift when Charles gets it right. It's not the most efficient way to guide someone, not at all, but Max keeps doing it. Again and again, because it works. As if when he does not talk, Charles listens more.
There's something unbearable about being allowed this closeness. Something worse about knowing he won't get to keep it.
After a particularly good lap, Charles puts his hands of the steering wheel and catches up with his breath. Unlike Max, who managed to reach a peaceful stillness, his heart must be beating like after running three miles.
Their eyes meet in the dark spot of the screen and Max can't recall last time Charles looked at him so earnestly.
Max's hand stays on the crease of Charles' shoulder.
"I still think you're wrong about that corner. And I'll prove it one day," he says with exceptionally thick French accent, sweetly like one would utter a promise of eternity.
Max smirks, knowing this man well enough to understand he'd rather die trying than simply fold.
"Let's take a break. I'll print out the data."
It hangs heavy in the air. No matter how many different approaches they'd tried, the car acts like it desires to be downgraded in F2 category.
Half a beer later, with several papers scattered around the table, corners circled with a red pen, they sit at Max's kitchen table, like this a normal thing they do.
Charles, still in wearing the damn glasses that stir something very specific and not entirely unpleasant in Max's stomach, frowns and bites his lip.
The gesture is unconscious, maybe habitual, but Max's eyes track it every time like a glitch in his vision. They both have an iPad with even more telemetry on it. No matter how much they look, the answers are not popping up.
The silence is growing heavier by the minute. Their patience is thinning, but neither one wants to be the first to crack. Charles is tapping the table with the butt of his pen and if he keeps doing it, Max will yank it off his hands.
Their feet have bumped a few times under the table – Max stopped pulling away after the third. He doesn't know if Charles noticed. He kind of hopes he didn't.
Friday evening and no matter how frustrated this is making him…He probably won't like to be doing anything else right now. But the reason why they're here in the first place? Borderline embarrassing.
Because this was his idea. The idea of digging in, testing and trying without the intervention from the team, seemed like the way to go about it. He's dragged Charles into it and after what feels like hours, they got nothing.
Every passing minute is making him more and more relentless.
Finally, Max exhales hard, leans back in the chair, and throws his pen across the table. Not violently, just with the speed of someone who's run out of patience. Charles winces and gives him a very condescending, paternal look. Which Max decides to ignore.
This is torture. Maybe he should have retired last season. Save himself from the pitied looks. It's easier to power through struggles when you still have something to prove. All Max has are just achievements to fail replicate.
And Charles over here is a blunt reminder of that. He still has it. The spark in his eyes, the hunger, the urge to fulfill the journey.
While Max is staring at the data, looking for material damning Horner in the first place, and ways to adapt his driving only in second, Charles sees past all the politics and drama. Accepts the way it is, shifts his approach and goes forward. There still some sort of a forward for Charles.
It's too much for Max. Everything he knows, everything he's ever trusted about this car is breaking apart in his hands. There's too many variables, too many lies baked into the numbers, and not a single damn solution in sight.
"This is pointless," Max announces finally, rubbing his hands over his face. "The car is fucked. There is no way to go about it."
Charles doesn't even look up. His voice comes quiet, almost bored, which somehow makes it worse. "You're just mad it's not doing what you want."
He's probably right, but that's for Max to know and deny. He's lashing out again. No need for Charles stark ability to shift Max in the way he desires. This is not his fault, but that does not stop Max.
"I'm mad because you're understeering like a maniac and then act surprised when you flat the tires."
"Oh là là, not this again," Charles exhales, setting the iPad down like he's afraid he might throw it otherwise. "We tried that theory. It's not that. There must be a way."
He leans forward, arms braced on the table, looking every bit the idealist Max cannot stand tonight. Does he not see it? The windmills they're fighting?
"How can you be so positive all the time? Like it's an incurable disease."
Charles takes a moment, as if he does not want to say it out loud. Max won't let him easy.
After a stare down, Charles caves in. "Somebody in this room has to be," he lets out with annoyed desperation.
Max could take this cue and try and seek a common ground. Sadly, he's too far deep now. A certain word triggering him even more than their shit car.
"In this room. Interesting." He says it like he's clocking something. Like he's not sure if Charles even realizes he's doing it – performing sanity while Max spirals.
"What are you on about now?" Charles exhales, obviously tired too. It does not stop Max. In fact, it's like a fresh fuel into his brattiness.
"Would you be less positive in a different room?" he asks rhetorically, making sure his sarcasm is ever-present and obvious.
Charles gives a very confused and at the same time very suspicious look. Max lets him marinate in it.
A wave of horror washes over Charles' beautiful face. "Max…Is this your idea of flirting?" He says it like it's painful.
Usually, Max would laugh at that assumption and find the unassuming deflection cute. For once, it's not. Max is dead set on figuring out at least one thing tonight. It's looking like the car is not one of the options. Arms crossed and dead look in his face. Clean shot this time.
"Let's go and try the car again. On another sim. Maybe in your room."
It's like the distance between them physically grows. Max, leaned back, closed off, on a mission he fears he won't abandon no matter what kind of damage he inflicts on the way.
Opposite of him, Charles, clearly unwilling to stop standing his ground.
The more Max thinks about it, the less sense it's making. When's the last time Charles has been home? What does it all mean?
"What are you, twelve?" Charles mutters, staring straight at Max, like he's gone crazy. "You want me to write you a note and pass it under the table too?"
He's doing what he always does when he's hiding something. In fact, he had done it twice today and Max's inability to see it at the time makes his blood boil.
Twisting the topic, looking for detours. At the risk of losing what ever common understanding they managed to find in the past few days, Max forces a direct approach. It's not supposed to be that big of a deal. Charles and his strange answers are making it so.
"No. I want to go to your home and test this on your sim. I'm sure that thing is not under renovation."
Charles stiffens. A slow inhale through the nose. Max can see it – his control thinning at the edges, restraint retreating inch by inch.
"I have told you once," Charles says, low and distant, "and I can't believe I have to say this again. The whole place is being renovated."
Max folds his arms, leans back in the chair like he didn't just drop the temperature of the room by ten degrees. "It's weird, that's all."
"Weird," Charles echoes. "You find it weird that I don't sleep in a place being ripped apart by contractors?"
There it goes – first slip up. He does not sleep there.
"I find it weird," Max says, slow and trying to sound unbothered, "that you've been so quiet about this."
That's when Charles lets his mask down. And now, his face is sharp. Now it's pissed.
For once, he doesn't hide the irritation behind a grin or carefully crafted speech. "Why are you so obsessed with my apartment?" first sentence comes slyly. Eyes piercing through Max aggressively, waiting for him to falter. Max keeps his stoic stance. It works – Charles scoffs and raises his voice, disbelief painted over him. "You sound like a crazy fan," he spits. "Drop it."
The last part is like an angry plea. Max wishes he was a better man, with the ability to leave this matter at bay.
"Charles, it does not make any sense! If you're renovating, why don't you at least go and check it out?"
Charles quickly hides his face in his hands. "Oh my God, you're–"
Stream of words leaves Max like there's no tomorrow.
"Renovation is a project someone like you would talk about nonstop!" he points a finger at Charles. "You showed me the new leather for your car seats – twice!"
"I care more about cars then–" Charles tries to interrupt, still with face covered, but with zero success.
"No you don't," Max says so quickly, he nearly trips over his tongue. "You constantly blabber about being an architect, if it weren't for F1. It does not make sense, Charles. Why aren't you there right now? Checking the work?"
A very, very tired sigh. "Max. That is none of your business."
Well, he's got him there. It shouldn't sting as much as it does.
"You are right," Max admits, because there is nothing else to reply to that.
Charles folds his hands down and looks up at him, building a wall between them with his distant tone. His eyes flick upward with surgical precision. "Glad to be in agreement."
That bone-deep ache of being deliberately kept out hits Max out of nowhere.
It makes his skin feel too tight, throat dry and chest empty of any air.
But Max sees it. In Charles too.
In the way Charles' mouth tightens after the words leave it. Like maybe, in a better world, he wouldn't have to keep Max out.
This is probably the final cue for Max to abort the topic. One he misses entirely.
"Why are you lying?"
The question lands flat, but it's meant to. Not shouted, not accused, just dropped between them like a bomb.
And then – snap. Finally. Quick as a lightning.
"Oh my God Max, drop it!" Charles pushes his chair back with a screech, moving sharply. His voice shakes with fury.
Max doesn't move. He wants Charles to see how serious he is. How far he's willing to go.
"No."
Charles stands up. "I don't owe you any explanations."
He walks away somewhere in the living room. Paces around aimlessly, like he's trying to get it all under his control again.
Max follows him with his eyes. "I was the one honest with you. How can I trust you if you keep lying."
The words feel childish the second they're out, but he doesn't take them back. That would mean surrender.
Charles turns around, eyes sharp with accusation.
"Max, this is emotional blackmail."
There's something close to hurt underneath it. Something Max almost missed.
"Why is this such a big deal for you?" Max urges and pushes again, getting almost desperate with his own lack of understanding.
The reply comes cold, brutal and even more desperate. "And why is it for you?"
Max turns back, unable to to look at him anymore.
This is why you want to keep Charles on your good side. There probably isn't a person walking this Earth that knows better where to press to break Max down. Taking advantage of the fact Charles is standing behind him and can't see his face, Max releases his facial expression from a stiff and safe press. Eyes closed, chest heavy and head dropping down.
"I don't…"
He fails to say anything else. Because Charles has a point. Nothing about their situation grants Max permission to push so hard. Maybe it's really just a case of renovation and Max is truly losing it. Accepting this is going to cost him a lot. He can already tell.
None of them say anything for a while. Silence rules and Max does not dare to turn around. Sits stubbornly, still few pages behind Charles.
He tries not to picture the disappointment on Charles's face. He hears Charles breathing, uneven and real. That, more than anything, makes him feel like a villain.
"This has been a mistake," Max hears him say and his heart drops. Behind him, Charles starts walking towards the door, abrupt. "Thanks for the invite," Charles proclaims, louder than needed. The edge in his voice isn't just anger. It's escape.
With nothing more to lose, Max leans back, biting the inside of his cheek. "Tss. Typical."
Max apparently already lost, he might as well just send it straight. He finally dares to look at Charles again. Sees him stop and gets drunk in the way his words seem to land.
"What does that mean?" Charles asks in pure astonishment. Charles turns half-back, disbelief painted across his face.
Like he can't believe Max is still talking.
It's empowering.
"Go. Say 'Hi' to the contractors from me." Max says it without a smile. No real venom. Just another push.
"I will."
It's Charles' turn to sound childish.
"Lying will get you far in Red Bull! You'll fit right in."
That one he regrets the moment it leaves his mouth. But he doesn't stop. He never does.
That's what hurts. Charles doesn't poke at the shadows. He adapts. Accepts the rules. While Max is stuck trying to decode who's lying to him and why and still thinking this is important.
There's a shift in Charles' posture. A defensive spike up. "Don't call me a liar."
"Fine," Max stands up too. The sound the chair makes is awful.
"Is there another name for someone who's lying through their teeth?" Max's voice stays low, almost amused. "Like a French term or…?"
He raises his eyebrows, ugly sarcastic smirk grows on his face and doesn't know why he's still talking. The room's already cracked. He's just throwing stones now.
Charles lets out a dry laugh with no actual humor in it. "I don't know what you're even saying–"
"When's the last time you've been home?" Max's voice cuts through him. He's never sounded so quiet and so brutal at once. He walks two steps towards Charles, who instinctively moves back. Max files that as a weak confirmation of his assumptions. He keeps going.
Charles avoids looking directly at him a puts an arm out, as if to keep Max at bay. "Why are you so focused on–"
"Stop deflecting. It's a simple question." Each line lands harder than the last. Max sees it now – Charles is cornered. And not in a way either of them planned.
"Why do you need to know?" Charles exhales pathetically. He still won't look at him. "I go there all the time?"
Sudden rush of confidence runs through Max's veins like a last gift from heavens.
"No, you don't, you're in Milton Keynes all the time. Why are you so weird about it?"
Charles' body does something that could only be described as a cold shiver.
"Max, I can't go there!" he urges now, with no ability to hide it away. "Leave me alone!"
Max speaks calmly now. "Why?"
The next words crash out of Charles like something he's been choking on. His chest rises and falls too fast.
"It's full of fucking Ferrari!"
His whole body tenses up and the look he gives out is one that could probably kill. Max doesn't dare to move anymore. For a second, everything goes completely still.
And just like that – there it is. The truth. And the cost of digging it out.
The look of utter desperation is damning for Max to observe. The finality which follows it, is perhaps even worse.
Notes:
uf
you guys said you wanted them to talk
oh well
a hard one to put together, so I pray it works
this was suppose to be only a half of a chapter.......ups
Chapter 14: The One That Got Away
Summary:
A manic Friday for Charles.
An evening to survive for Max.
Notes:
huh
a hard one
my boy charles is going throught it(i suggest you go back and read the last part of the previous chapter if it's been a while. to be honest, these two chapters along with the next one should probably be read in one sitting)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It's full of fucking Ferrari
Il Traditore
It's full of fucking Ferrari
Il Traditore
Il Traditore
Il Traditore
Charles lets a laugh out so manic, so full of disdain and disbelief he gags on it and has to grasp for breath two times.
Max just stares, like a deer into the headlights and it drives Charles' hysteria into greater heights.
It bursts out of him in waves – sharp, uncontrollable, the kind of wildness one keeps for the middle of a lonely, sleepless, night. Well shit. Too late now.
His shoulders shake, and there's a split second where it's impossible to tell if he's laughing or about to choke. Every inch of him says try me without uttering a single word.
The laughter dies slowly, his face rapidly transforming into something almost gentle. Manic gentle. Giving Max a pitiful look full of care. That poor man does not understand. Not a single bit.
Beneath that sudden softness is a silent warning not to push anymore, because if he does, Charles can't be held responsible for his actions no longer. His intuition screams that the right to do would be to walk away now.
It's not loud enough.
Charles, who was almost out of the door a second ago, stands still. Staring at Max, like it's too late for either of the to back down. His chest is rising too fast for how little he's moving.
"You wanted the truth?" he snaps, arms folding tight across his chest. "Great. Here you go. Now what?"
The adrenaline that powers Charles is clashing with Max, who apparently still hangs in the 'fight or flight' decision. Almost like he's begging for Charles to pinch him.
"What?"
The almost desperate confusion in his tone kills Charles.
He knew this was a mistake, now he just needs to convince Max too.
"Yes, exactly."
His tone is unkind, sarcastic, cold. "What are you going to do about it?"
Ugly and a cruel face. That's what Charles figures he'd see in the mirror right now. There's one right next to his left side, but he's not brave enough to look. Staring down at Max is easier.
"I-uh"
"I-uh – See?"
Waste of words, even for Max apparently.
There is deep dark hole sucking the life out of Charles, buried in his core and if somebody digs, it's only going to swallow them too.
"You wanted pointless? This is pointless," he exclaims and points to himself.
Once again, Charles just laughs. Because Max, poor Max, just stands there.
Max doesn't understand this, that much is obvious. And it's not the case where Charles wants him to actually get it. Why would he? There are moments, which one has to go through alone. Sharing it won't ease the pain, only multiply it.
Pain brings growth. Heartbreak carves you up into the next version of you. They say without suffering, you won't grow. Like hurt is the only way to understand.
Charles never asked for growth. Or he might have, before he saw the meaning of it. Just like Max over here.
Now, along with the wisdom, there is a deep longing for brighter days when he might have objectively been less wise, but all the more naive and happy.
He starts pacing in circles. It's been like this ever since he was sixteen. Every lesson chips away something he didn't even knew he had. Until it was irreparably gone.
Charles does not wish to be any smarter than he is today. Not if it means getting hurt again.
But it's not like gets a choice.
Well – that might not be the case this time. He was the one to make the decision to leave Ferrari.
And his manic laughter roars again. This is all his, only his, doing.
Max doesn't let his sight out of him for a second. He's just sort of frozen, embodying all the awkwardness Charles might have brought into his apartment when he first entered.
Not anymore. That's all passed.
Charles makes a weak attempt at tuning it down. Sticking to the last ounce of self-control he can gather.
"We can find a way to drive a the car, but I am far beyond fixing," he whispers, bitterness on the tip on his tongue.
Max's throat works in a visible swallow, but he doesn't answer right away. His eyes stay locked, unblinking, like moving would break whatever this is. "Charles, you–"
"No, Max," he cuts in almost instantly. "Do not give me your fake sympathy."
Max puts his hands up in defense. For a heartbeat, it feels like they've both gone still enough to let the argument die here. Charles almost start to celebrate.
"That's not why I'm here," Max says finally, and the certainty in his voice that lights a new fire inside of Charles. Turns out he has so much more.
Max's refusing to accept a way out and continuing with his digging and digging is something that drives Charles crazy. This inessive need to dissect him into pieces. And for what? Max saw Charles getting publicly slandered and laughed at. Perhaps the fake sympathy would have been better.
"Of course. I forgot," Charles looks up at the ceiling because there is wetness in his eyes and he can't just start crying now. This is a bed he made, might just as well lie in it, without looking like a complete idiot. Maybe if he freaks Max out, he'll let Charles go in peace.
"Fine – do it. Give me your bad, horrible jokes, " he manages to look him in the eye again. "Make fun of me, like you always do."
Max doesn't answer right away. He just keeps staring, and for a moment Charles can't place it – it's not the stubborn defiance he's used to. It's softer, but in a way that feels heavier, like Max is holding something fragile in his hands and doesn't know what to do with it. The look is pained, almost pleading, and it hits Charles like a blow he refuses to acknowledge. He can't afford to.
"Charles, I'm not the enemy," he lets out in the weakest voice Charles has probably ever heard come out of his troat. Raspy, broken and even desperate.
It's almost adding to the heaviness of it all. It's the tenderness that makes Charles question if Max understands just how stripped and bare he has Charles right now. Since he can't seem to grasp just how rare it is, for Charles to crumble so publicly in front of someone, he decides, that he he's not been intense enough.
Charles takes one quick step forward and points his finger. His own desperation taking over, ruling over any reason Charles might beg to stay with him.
"No, but you are!" he hears his own voice rise to new volume. "You're suppose to be! I was supposed to beat you in Ferrari! Not join this tragedy of a team."
He really did switch one tragedy for another. This is a conversation he was never suppose to have.
The control of his own stream of thoughts is slipping. He doesn't even understand what he's saying, why would anyone else?
And in that moment – it's like finally wakes up and sees the damage.
Oh God. He really left Ferrari.
He actually did it.
Definite end of that story. Panic sets in. And once again, it nearly calls in tears into his eyes. His chest folds heavy and he can't seem to be in control of anything his body does anymore.
When Max doesn't reply, Charles fills the silence. Reason, try to cling to reason.
"There are way worse things to experience," he tries to convince himself carefully. Ground this madness to reality. "I'm privileged, I know this. So please, be kind enough to leave me alone with this."
The adrenaline is creeping out of his body. He leaves the hallway, nearly pushing Max away. He walks deeper into the apartment, unable to face of frozen Max anymore.
He sinks down onto the arm of the sofa, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The fight drains out of him all at once, leaving him strangely weightless, like the aftermath of a fever.
Closing his eyes does not sooth him, the sound in his ears is unstoppable.
It's too much. He doesn't want to. It was better to pretend to the whole world, himself included, that he's on top of this team switch.
Oh God – he's not a Ferrari driver anymore. He will never be a Ferrari driver again.
His stomach drops.
"Would you really be happier with it alone?" he hears Max's genuine concern being voiced. "Because from where I'm standing, you're drowning in it."
And perhaps being seen is the most embarrassing part of it all.
Charles' head snaps back toward him, eyes narrowing, because of course Max had to cut through. His pulse spikes. He can't tell if it's anger or the fact Max has never sounded more certain.
"I was fine, Max!" his hands lift mid-air, fingers spread, almost like he's trying to throw the words away. "And now you, you with your stupid fucking trophies and your questions–"
"I'm proud of you," Max blurts out.
This catches him of guard.
"What?" Charles must have misheard him. Max does not correct himself, so he cuts in. "What kind of a bullshit is that?"
Max's voice doesn't rise, he doesn't try to match Charles' volume. If anything, it drops lower, like he's afraid of spooking him. Pained expression locked in the face that rarely shows emotion during a fight.
"You finally saw some sense and gave yourself a chance. That team would bury your ambitions alive."
It's a valid attempt, but Charles is too far gone down the road, too deep in, to be able to actually hear and accept what Max is saying.
Il Traditore.
"It was suppose to be with them! They believed in me, gave me everything and I failed."
The word 'failed' hangs there, raw and ugly, and Charles hates how small it makes his voice sound. His hands twitch, desperate to hold onto something, so he brings them up to bite the little remains of his nails.
How can Max not see just how horrible person I am? He – the forever loyal one.
Max takes a slow step closer, not closing the distance completely, like he's bracing himself to hold the blow if Charles decides to land it.
"They were wasting the best years of your life. Charles, you do only get one of those."
"They failed me," Charles stands up again and walks towards Max. Maybe then he'll hear him clearer. "But I failed them so much more."
The admission strips the last of the manic edge from his voice. For a moment, he starts seeing red.
"So yeah," he mutters, the venom drained but the pain raw. "It's 'full of fucking Ferrari'," he mocks his own line. But after that, his face becomes serious again. "And maybe if you had a bit of empathy under all that talent, you'd have figured it out without making me say it out loud."
It's like talking to a wall. Regret washes over Charles, because Max probably does not deserve to be at the receiving end of all this. Still, he stands tall, hands on his hips now and after a brief moment, like he's expecting Charles to come up with something more, he raises his brows.
"Are you done?" Max speaks, in a tone that screams a newfound, or perhaps regained, confidence. "Is it all out?"
How dare he be like this. Stoic, calm and not even horrified anymore.
"Max, it's never going to be 'out'," Charles laughs again, getting increasingly more mad at him with every sure and calmly uttered sentence that lands into his ears. He lets out and annoyed scoff. "This is it."
There's a version of Charles that used to believe pain had purpose. Made him sharper, wiser. But that version died somewhere between Monza and Abu Dhabi and no one came to the funeral.
"Max, I am trying so hard not to be cruel to you," he urges. "But you're making it impossible."
There's too much pent up anger and energy in Charles' muscles. He starts pacing around again, to the living room and then back.
Head low, eyes caught in deep thought. Charles tries to not watch Max, but it's hard not to, when he's taking time to think. Then, after what seems like half of a century, he looks up: "I can handle cruel. I know this isn't about me. Honestly, anything is better than watching you pushing it all in."
Delusions that posses Max must be strong. It inspires Charles, who goes to burn some more bridges. "I haven't been inside my house since I first left for Milton Keynes. The idea of going back is about as pleasant as visiting your own future grave. Not something I'm gonna do anytime soon."
A wave of realization sets over whole of Max's body. "Wait – so you don't want to go there?" Max tilts his head, baffled expression on.
Charles groans, tired of repeating the same song again and again. "I can't go there! What's not clicking?" he breaks out, pointing at his own brain and burning Max down with his look.
There is a very specific face Max uses only during interviews, when asked an exceptionally dumb question.
"Oh no. Can't and won't are two very different things, Charles."
And apparently, when he's having stupid fights in his hallways.
It takes a lot to get Charles to explode, but it's looking very promising right now. He briefly closes his eyes, hoping it'll help him find some patience. "If you cut me up, I'll still bleed red. Forever."
When he opens then again, Charles folds his arms, like the conversation's over, like that should be enough to shut Max up. But Max just studies him, head slightly tilted, the beginnings of something reckless in his eyes. Charles can see it coming before he even opens his mouth.
"I think we should go there. Now."
Max stands confident, as if he hadn't just gone crazy.
"Are you mental? I just told you, I can't," he repeats, accent slipping heavily.
Max takes one deliberate step forward, hands sliding into his pockets. His voice is calm, but it carries the weight of a verdict. "Charles, it's been weeks. What are you going to do when we show up at the first race? Cry on live television?"
What has Charles ever done to deserve to be at the receiving end of Max's insights?
"Fuck you."
It comes out weak. Not convincing enough to stop him.
"What are you going to do next week?," he presses, coming closer, that merciless, straight-to-the-point grin cutting deeper. "When we have the test at the same time as your precious Ferrari?"
"Why are you like this? Do you get off by making me miserable?"
"I'm doing this because I can't watch you anymore."
The worst part is, Charles knows he means it. Max always means it. "You need to show up, full force, ready to fight. Whatever this is, it need to go out of your system," Max warns mercilessly. "Soon."
He wants to tell Max he's wrong. That this isn't something you can flush away and move on with life. This was Charles' life. This still is his life. But Max doesn't wait for his reply.
"So yeah, storm out if you want to. You can chose to ignore it more. Or – we go now."
For a heartbeat Charles thinks about throwing something – words, the nearest object, anything to shatter the coolness Max has built. But Max is already speaking again, and the moment's gone. "And if it's necessary, I'll drag you through the front door myself."
A very small part of Charles almost appreciates this effort. It's nice to live in the illusion that somebody acknowledges the magnitude of of the weight he carries. Another part of him wants to rebel like a stubborn child. The rest of him just wants to hide.
He finally speaks again. "It's pointless, Max," he sighs and rubs his temples. "This is it, I'll always be like this."
Finite, certain, emotionless. Proudly regaining some footing.
But Max is three steps ahead of him. There's no rush in his face, which somehow makes it feel inevitable. "You're doing the same thing to yourself that they're doing to our car. Hoping the issues magically sort themselves out if you look the other way."
Charles lets out a short, humorless laugh and rolls his eyes. "How fucking poetic of you."
Smile grows on Max's face. "You can lie to me, but don't lie to yourself."
A sarcastic scoff escapes Charles' throat. Again with the lying – why does he have to always use this as a point? Round and round in the same circle, until things go his way.
Maybe that's the only way to shut him up.
"You what? Fine!" Charles opens his arms for the mania to return. "Let's go. Have it your way," he waves away, anger rising again and curls his lips into a faux smile. Half accusation, half disbelief. "If this is what your heart desires, to watch me suffer, then let's go." Unapologetic, borderline insane grin grows, and he welcomes it.
Last word mark the final moment they could still back out. Charles knows this and challenges Max, staring at him once again. Fearless and strong.
That's on the outside. Inside, he's not sure he's not about to vomit all over him. Nerves and nausea working overtime.
Max takes a breath, as if to say something more – but in the end, he doesn't. He just nods, reaches for the first set of keys he sees and raises his brows. He throws them up in the air two times, presumably to finally start mocking Charles.
He catches the keys mid-air on the third throw. Max lets him.
Charles slams the door harder than necessary. Max doesn't comment.
The car almost jumps out to the sidewalk and any other driver would fail to miss the road sign and crash right into it. With an extra bump, they avoid it and it almost looks like it was all intentional. Max opens his mouth.
"Don't," Charles snaps before a word gets out and slides over second roadway curb in the fifty meters.
Leaving the apartment – together, miraculously – helps Max in a way he could hardly describe. Gather his thoughts, get his emotions in check, as much as he's capable to do so.
This one is about Charles. Not him.
The fight is still sitting in his chest, heavy and stubborn, but not in a way that makes him regret it.
He knows he pushed too hard – maybe said things that were a little cruel, no matter how much he tried to chose silence and let Charles be the one to speak – but that's the point, isn't it? If he didn't get under Charles' skin, they'd still be in that apartment, circling the same lines until one of them got bored enough for Charles to leave.
Better this than watching him pace around like some caged animal, eating himself alive over things he can't change.
One would say it's confusing to push and walk on eggshells around him at the same time, but it's the only way Max knows how to argue. Flat out and slam the break. Kind the way Charles drives today.
Maybe it's the air, maybe it's the motion, but some of the tension, the some of the fear of messing it up, starts to dissolve.
And now, sitting in the passenger seat, he lets himself notice the other thing: that no matter how erratic Charles is behind the wheel right now, he's not afraid. Never has been. Even when Charles throws the car over a curb again.
"You're driving like a lunatic," Max comments, hoping for a break from the tension that marks this evening.
He wonders if there's anyone else who's felt that. Anyone else who's sat in the passenger seat and thought, he won't crash us.
"I am a lunatic. Didn't you hear?" Charles ponders as he turns the wheel hazardously. "Walking tragedy, Il Traditore, wasted talent. Take your pick."
It's more than obvious that Charles is still locked in his rush of emotions. Max does not blame him for it. He probably revealed the minimum of the weigh he lives under.
Max exhales sharply through his nose. "You forgot 'drama queen'."
It comes without any spite. If Charles were less lost in his own head, perhaps he might have noticed the affectionate tone Max forgot to filter out.
It would be hard to pretend Charles' outburst didn't take him by surprise. But perhaps more surprising is the way Max's body reacted on its own when witnessing it. The angelic face he's becoming so used to curled with pain made his heart clench. Even now he's not sure he's fully calmed down.
A common man could say that Charles is overreacting. Max is anything but that. Swallows up every word that comes out of Charles' mouth like it's sacred, even if he sometimes has trouble following his train of thoughts. Be it because they are two very different people, be it because they are battling endless oceans of second language complications.
Yet, one unusual emotion hangs over every step Max is making this evening, the whole day in fact.
Hope. Hope that they will find a way.
The street curves. The familiar hills rise. The sharp left toward Charles' building appears. He doesn't take it.
He drives right past.
Max sits up straighter. "You missed the turn."
"I know."
Oh, fucking hell. Max got carried away by the silence, mistaking it for resolution. Looks like they are not done yet. "You said we were going," he speaks with pretend patience.
"Yeah, well," Charles growls. "I changed my mind."
"Charles–"
"No. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. And if you say one more word, I will make you walk back."
Max ignores the fact it's his car. "So that's it? You'll say you tried, then blame it on me?"
Charles' head whips toward him, eyes sharp. "What?"
"It's convenient, isn't it," Max presses, voice steady. "You storm out, I push too hard, you walk away thinking you tried. That's your win."
A muscle jumps in Charles' jaw. "You're unbelievable."
It worked before, it must work again. "Go ahead. Make me your excuse. Like always," Max presses further, deliberately.
Silence.
Then Charles slams the brakes so hard the seat belts lock.
The tires screech as he yanks the wheel into a brutal, last-minute turn – one that nearly takes out a streetlamp but redirects them straight toward his building.
Max grabs the side of the door by sheer instinct.
"You wanted this," Charles hisses through his teeth, almost laughing. "So don't fucking look at me like that."
Max still considers this as progress. Even if his shoulders come out of this with seat belt bruises.
When Charles said his place is 'full of fucking Ferrari', he wasn't lying. In fact, he might have been downplaying it.
The red is everywhere – splashes of scarlet stitched into throw blankets, framed photographs from podiums, a cap on the arm of the couch, half of the mugs are maroon, even the bloody welcome mat is bright red. Ferrari museum in the making. Claustrophobic in a way that has nothing to do with size.
Max is standing in a place he'd never expect him to. The heaviness of the stale air clogs his lungs.
Maybe it was a mistake to make Charles do this. Max is barely noticing all the details where the scarlet red creeps in. No, he's watching Charles, selfishly praying he won't end up hating him for forcing this upon him.
He's not moving like someone at home. More like someone who broke in and changed his mind midway. Max has never seen him like this.
Throughout the years of high stake emotional moments, loses and victories, misfortune or undeserved luck – never before did he have the privilege to look at his despair directly.
Caught in a terrible in-between moment. Suddenly, he's terrified things will only get worse thanks to his intervention. An impossible choice – watch Charles bury his soul deep in denial or try and drag it out?
Someone as uniquely delicate as him, one of the strongest, most determined people Max knows, yet at the same time so exceptionally attuned to the passion Max shares…When he sees him standing in the middle of his apartment, turning around aimlessly, like he doesn't even recognize it anymore, Max curses his past self for ever doubting that Charles' heart is in 'it' – in racing, in this whole dangerous madness – for the purest of reasons.
Passion. Dedication. Loyalty.
As if he could hear his thoughts, Charles turns back to Max, acknowledging his presence with the sharpest, rawest stare.
"Now what?" Charles asks sarcastically. Like he knows he's got Max cornered.
Max wishes he had the answers that would ease his mind. He doesn't. Both of them are walking in the dark, he's just better at keeping his composure this time.
When he doesn't find the words, Charles beats him to it.
"You wanted to see for yourself, didn't you?" His voice is low, bittersweet comment he probably never wanted to have to say. "Congratulations. You've seen it."
Max watches his hands – restless, twitching at his sides like they can't decide whether to reach for something or tear it apart.
"I'm not your little charity case, Max. I was fine before you."
Max exhales through his nose, steady but slow, trying not to give away that the words hit.
Charles isn't fine. Neither of them are. But he knows better than to tell him that in this state.
He knows Charles is just kicking and screaming around him, that's him rejecting the truth, because he knows it will hurt. Still, Max has to remind himself that these words don't actually carry a meaning.
But Charles is looking at him now, shoulders squared, gaze fixed, and it's the same look he's had in the paddock before a race he doesn't think he'll win. Reckless, resigned, but still there.
And Max realizes the truth in a way that makes his chest feel too small. If Charles walks away from this moment thinking Max is the enemy, he'll never get him back. So he takes inspiration in the hopeless recklessness and offers a potential solution.
"I think you should start getting rid of some things," he blurts out before he gets to think it through.
Charles looks like he's listening, but he does answer back.
Max continues. "Just…Few things. Maybe pack them in some boxes so that the Ferrari stuff is not so…visible."
He'd go and demonstrate, he would take the Ferrari themed coasters on the kitchen island and use them as an example. But truth be told, he's so afraid of making the wrong move that will turn Charles against him. So, he doesn't.
"The things you own end up owning you back," he tries to argue, when he senses another outburst coming from Charles.
It works, finally and Charles seems to step back. He leans on the counter like the kitchen itself just made him tired.
"You really woke up today and chose to be stupidly poetic, huh." He's not even punchy anymore, just visibly tired. "It's–" he lets out a deep sigh, "it's hard to see just how much love I had for them once."
Even when he's just the one observing, Max feels the weight of the residue hope in this place too. He can't even imagine what Charles must feel right now. If he were to be honest, it's terrifies him a bit.
It's not often Max sees him like this – not quiet in the 'plotting his next move' kind of a way, but quiet because the weight is winning. Charles' hands are braced against the counter, head bowed just enough that his hair falls into his eyes. Gone is any performance for the masses or the strategic playfulness he owns so well. This is gentle, scared and unsure young man. Max sometimes sees this essence in himself too.
"Do you think this move was a was a mistake?" Charles asks out of the blue, in a small and almost desperate tone.
Both of them know what 'it' stands for. No need to repetition.
And Max does not have an answer to that too. He's trying to hide the way how this tone coming from Charles is killing something inside of him. Like this is all wrong and it should not be happening. But he speaks the truth, from the bottom of his heart.
"It's useless to wonder. One life, one option. The Sun could explode tomorrow," he begins and only continues when he's sure Charles is actually listening to him. "You left for a reason. You don't go and give up a love like you're describing when there is no issue."
It seems to land with Charles, who looks like he's coming back to reason for the first time after his outburst. The familiar expression sets in his face, the one Max recognizes from the TV screen. Like when he's figuring out the change of strategy during a particularly long wet race red flag.
"I have some boxes somewhere," Charles let out after a moment of pondering. Like he's deeply still in thought, but his mouth is already speaking. He lets Max wait for the rest of the sentence, like a bad cliffhanger. Then, finally, he looks directly at him, with determination written all over him. "I'll bring them and we can start…Putting some things away…"
He stands proudly now. Like he might just actually do this. Max holds his breath and lets his continue. "If you want to help me, of course."
And Max does not remember last time he wanted something so badly.
Notes:
i smell a double update this weekend
Chapter 15: The Jacket
Summary:
When he walks back into the bedroom, the first thing he sees is the color.
That unique, perfect shade of Ferrari red. Rosso corsa.
The second thing is Max.
Chapter Text
Every move Charles tries to make is one that his own body fights against. A blunt rejection of whatever he's about to do – and to be clear, he has no idea what his plan is or how far this will go.
Does he have to get rid of all of his furniture? Rip the floors out? Sell this place entirely?
Part of him doubts any of this is going to help. But it feels fresh to actually try and do something about it, instead of avoiding it like a plague. A shrine to a lost dreamland.
He decides the closet is the best place to start. Easiest, closest…doable, as Max comments.
They move in silence – Charles, mindlessly assessing each piece and deciding whether to keep it in or pass over to Max, who's on the folding duty. A giant carbon paper box lies between them, one that stayed behind from when a company came to move out Charles' ex sometime ago.
At that time, he thought that was hard. Looking back, it was just inconvenient. It's different when you're getting rid of something that you still care for. Pain doesn't bother visiting places, where there is no love left.
A thousand band aids cover the hurt he carries – but they are proving to not work at all. Red leaks through. So, while ripping them off hurts, but he figures it might perhaps be for the better.
His hand stops on pure instinct. No need to look into what's laying on the second shelf, wrapped in satin paper sheet. He remembers every stupid fight over this piece. Light blue Ferrari Collection knitted shirt from last year. The version of Charles that came up with this design had no idea he's be out of the team in year's time.
When it finally came done and ready to be sold, he thought he'd won something permanent. A small square of proof that if you pushed hard enough, you could make the world match what was in your head.
He picks it up and unwraps. "We went through seven rounds of sampling with this one," he says. Someone should know it too. He looks over at Max, who's sitting on the floor, eyes flashing between his face and the shirt.
"It's nice. I like it," he declares after few moments.
"You don't have to say this, Max." Still, he appreciates the kindness.
"No, but I mean it. You wear many things that I find ugly," he says casually, in his signature no-filter style. Charles almost chuckles. "But this one I remember thinking it was nice."
Well, if even the style-deaf World Champion Max Verstappen found it 'nice', Charles must have done something right. The fabric still feels soft in his hands.
"You don't have to put away everything…" Max consoles carefully.
Charles stares down at the knit for a long second. Then, with a breath that feels heavier than it should, he sidebars. "Where am I going to wear it?"
And what am I suppose to feel when I wear it?
Max hesitates, then shrugs. "Maybe when the Tifosi crucify you?"
Charles actually laughs at that. "Okay. Good point. I'll keep in the closet then," he says sarcastically – but returns the shirt back into the closet.
In the corner of his eye, he sees Max smiling too, and the absurdity lands – that of all people, he's doing this with him. The man he's supposed to be fighting, supposed to be keeping at arm's length, is here on his floor, folding away pieces of his past. Looking like he doesn't even mind.
The box is almost half full and yet, the closet looks like they'd barely touched it at all. One second Charles feels good about doing this. The next one, he wants to fold all the things back and kick Max out. Then he wishes to cry and wallow here until the end of times.
"I think I need a break." The fact he's not here alone is probably the last thing making try to hold it together. But even that might not be enough.
"I'm going to pour myself a drink, do you want something? I think there is some gin there…" he offers.
Max seems to think about it. "Um, thanks, but I'll be driving later so…"
"Yeah. Right," Charles nods and wonders why this lukewarm rejection stings. He leaves Max alone in his closet.
Charles' kitchen feels cleaner than it should be.
He opens the cupboard, finds a bottle that's survived the past year untouched. The kind of gift you keep out of politeness, not taste. He doesn't bother with a proper glass – just splashes the liquid into whatever tumbler is closest.
He tries to think about nothing. About the way the condensation forms a ring on the counter, about the faint hum of the fridge – but his mind insists on rewinding. To every time he told himself this is temporary. Next year will be our year. To the way he always believed there would be a next race, a next season, a next reason to make it all matter.
Perhaps, he's doing it again. When the last well of hope ran out, he just found another one.
He takes a sip. It burns, in the way he needs it to.
One by one, faces of all those who made sure he becomes the Ferrari prince, flash before his eyes. The managers. The trainers. The fans.
Jules. Antoine.
His father.
Maybe it's for the best that he didn't get to see his son rejecting the path that felt too good to be true once. If there is a heaven, Charles prays he gets to explain it to him in person. Tell him, why he folded under the weight of the 'almost' curse. Hopefully, by then, he'll have the answer.
It takes him long, but much needed, ten minutes to finish half of the drink.
When he walks back into the bedroom, the first thing he sees is the color.
That unique, perfect shade of Ferrari red. Rosso corsa.
The second thing is Max – who not sitting on the floor folding each piece carefully anymore – no, he's standing in front of the mirror, collar popped, hands in the pockets like it belongs to him. Ferrari jacket hanging on his shoulders.
Charles stops in the doorway, drink in hand, brain clean-wiped of all language as their eyes meet in the reflection. For a second, Charles believes he's began to hallucinate. It doesn't make sense. The room tilts, like he's walked into the wrong life.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The Ferrari jacket fits him almost too well – the shoulders sharp, the sleeves just long enough to graze his wrists, the chest stretched by a body that never belonged in it.
Max's smirk falters. After all these years, Charles finally learns what the look of guilt looks on him.
"Sorry," he says, pulling at the sleeve, hastily trying to take it off.
Charles blinks, throat dry. "Don't."
Max stares at him, hypnotized. Caught…well, red handed.
No words come to him. Charles' mouth opens, closes. His brain is busy cataloguing the image – Max in that jacket, Max's hands in those pockets, Max standing in his space with a piece of his life he hasn't touched in months – and for some reason, it feels like Charles is the one caught cheating.
The drink in his hand suddenly feels heavier, as if it might drop, but he doesn't move.
"I didn't think –"
"I said don't."
The words come out sharper than intended. The glass lands down a little too hard on the dresser. The sound is louder than it should be. He finally finds the strength to look away.
And then he's moving. Fast. Grabbing shirts off hangers, yanking folded things out of neat stacks, tossing them into the box with no regard for the system they'd started with. Fabrics mix together, memories pilling, one on another.
The shirt he wore when he signed the longest Ferrari contract ever. A podium cap. Team wear from 2021, 2023 and a year he can't place. Another cap, white this time.
"Charles–"
He sees Max turn around in his peripheral vision, but that does not slow him down.
Blindingly red hoodie. A t-shirt he meant to throw away a while ago ends up on the ground, instead of the box.
A hand holds him by the biceps. "I'm sorry, I–"
"I'm not mad at you," he snaps, without looking at him. Whatever random thing he's holding falls out of his grip. He turns to Max and for a flicker of a second, there's no anger – only something softer, almost pity. "I get it. I do."
Because he does get it. The pull of it.
"It's the magic of the red, isn't it? That specific shade, the one you can see from a kilometer away," he describes what used to be the color of his home. Now, it's belongs to someone else. "Every driver wants to know what it feels like to wear it. You're not special."
You're just like me.
But the sight still hurts, like a chord played off-key.
Because it's his jacket.
Because it belongs to a life that Max was never meant to be in.
Because it fits him.
He keeps going, hands moving faster now, not even paying attention to what he's throwing out of the closet.
"You even managed to pick next year's collection, by the way. Congrats. My replacement will probably be doing photo shoots in that exact jacket while you're standing there, pretending you're not comparing us."
Max opens his mouth, but Charles barrels on, a bitter laugh cutting through his words. "Hell, maybe I should keep it," he jokes, steps towards him and fixes Max's collars with a one swift move, so harshly it moves Max too. "Wear it around the house. Exposure therapy, right?"
He goes back away and tosses another shirt, missing the box, with unnecessary force. "If I see enough of it, maybe it'll stop making me want to tear my own skin off."
"Charles, with time –"
"No, Max. It will not ease with time," he argues and puts his fingers onto his temple. It's too much, all too much. "Stop this, stop it all!"
The carnage around them doesn't help. It's less like moving out and more like the aftermath of a tornado. It's a mess, just like Charles. He sinks down and rests his weight on the wooden wardrobe doors. For a moment, neither of them speak.
Head hanging low, nails digging into the cuticles around them.
"You look good in red," Charles comments, calmer now. Solemn smile creeping in, because he's not lying to Max this time. He looks up. "Not everyone does."
This time, he doesn't find the strength to stop the tears.
New images flood his mind. All the podiums that slipped at the last lap. Points lost, piling up and up into an impressive mountain of failure. Missed opportunities and chances blown – because of mistakes, misunderstandings or simply wrong decisions.
But it's not a game, or a bed time story. It's his life. His whole damn life.
Maybe if he had been smarter, calmer or a better teammate…He wouldn't have to sob on the floor of his own apartment he's beginning to hate.
His crying is silent, frighteningly serene.
And of course, there's Max. Someone, who Charles shouldn't even get to speak to, given how much of a disappointment he's grown into. Guilt, just so much guilt creeps in.
"I fucked it up for you too."
He covers his face with his palm, as if he could block the tears at the source. "I'm sorry."
Then Max finally speaks, low and almost disbelieving, like the words come in a foreign language. "What?"
And perhaps, Charles finally broke him too.
Max slowly sits next to him. Worried, very worried look on his face.
There goes the last, sad piece of Charles' dignity. Words just start coming out. He looks at Max, trying to convey his apology.
"We were supposed be this great rivalry, correct? Give each other meaning?" he searches for an inch of understanding in his new teammate. "I never got to properly fight you since we stopped being kids. Once, twice, maybe."
He had a role to play and he failed. He looks at him, secret hope creeping out. "Tell me, did you at least wished that we would?"
The reaction is immediate.
"I did. You know I did," Max says with a pained look too. "We still will."
He's being too nice to Charles. Probably scared to make it worse. Charles will happily play at least this role right.
"Both in the same shit car? Oh, what an epic battle that will be. I don't deserve anything good. You already made your legacy. I got what I deserve. Your team can play with me however they want," he sobs now, not even trying to push the tears back. "It's over, isn't it?"
His voice cracks.
Max is so close now, Charles could easily hide his face in Max's shoulder. So, he just…does. In reaction, Max sinks lower, fully sitting on the ground next to him now, allowing Charles to fold in. He keeps his head turned away, as he finds the perfect spot to rest his cheek.
"No, it's not," He can feel Max's arms enclosing him, starting to draw little circles on his shoulder blades. How sweet of him to lie so kindly.
Charles lifts his head to draw his hand across his wet cheek. "I'll die with the phrase 'wasted potential' written on my grave," he comments, throat dry.
There's nothing casual in the way Max is looking at him now. It's steady, unblinking, and so bare that it makes Charles' chest ache. Because he's not worth a look like that.
"I'm sorry, Max. Sorry, if I failed you too."
Tragic. Too pathetic to even be included in the same sentence as Max.
To his utmost surprise, Max leans forward and presses their cheeks together. The heat of his skin, combined with the rough, sudden touch occupies Charles enough that he momentarily forgets to breath. Still, it helps and he cling onto Max a little harder. It makes the tears roll faster.
"Stop, please, stop," Max pleads quietly. "I can't watch you like this."
For a long moment, neither of them say a word. The sound of their breaths fills the space, slow and uneven. Charles feels the faint scrape of stubble against his wet skin, the press of Max's temple like an anchor holding him in place.
Max's hand slides up, fingers curling loosely into the back of his neck. It's not the kind of touch Charles is used to from him. There's no claim in it, no provocation. Just quiet, steady presence.
Max's chest moves against his. "Don't say things like this anymore," he draws in a slow breath. "Please, don't think these things anymore."
It's a miracle Max is still here. Suddenly, he feels so much wiser, grounded and stable. Not like Charles, who is a walking mess.
And then it breaks over him, this violent influx of need, bigger than the sobs, bigger than the shame. Perhaps it's the fact Max is the only glimmer of safe space Charles finds in the apartment at this point of time. It's irrational, humiliating even, but it barrels through him all at once: have me, ruin me, distract me until I can breathe again.
He doesn't decide to cling tighter, his hands are already gripping into Max's shirt, dragging himself closer, knuckles whitening as if the contact alone might drown out the noise. For anyone to hold him, ground him, drag him out of his own head. To take him somewhere else for a while.
"Make me feel good. Please," Charles whispers, voice raw, lips brushing Max's jaw as he speaks because he's too close to hold himself back anymore. It isn't elegant, isn't suave – he's practically begging. Desperate enough that he hates himself for it, but still clings harder, nails pressing into Max's shoulder. Somehow, he's still here.
He lets out a shaky laugh, bitter and soft against Max's neck. "It doesn't matter. I won't be able to look you in the eye anyway after today."
He was wrong before. Max might be the only person on this planet to actually understand. Something in his touch betrays him so.
Charles grips on Max's shoulder for balance and lifts himself up on his knees. Nudges Max back, who's watching him, wonder and perhaps even lust. Yes, that's good, Charles desperately needs his desire.
When Max figures out what Charles wants, he moves a little to his back and leans on the wooden wall behind him. With newfound spike of energy, Charles climbs onto his lap. This is good, this will make him forget.
Reluctantly, Max gulps and leans his face away. "Charles, is this right?"
Even now, Charles is smart and present enough to read through the blurred lines. He tries to put all of his sudden determination into a look. Have me, take me, I can handle it.
They watch each other for a moment, hesitance mixing with unmistakable lust in Max's eyes and Charles wishes Max sees only the need and not sorrow in his. He doubts that's possible.
Slowly, almost like he's hypnotized, Max brushes the hair away from Charles' face. Delicate, careful fingers move with soft tenderness. Like he's again afraid he's going to break under his touch.
"I don't know, I don't care. I'm begging you, aren't I?" Charles mumbles eagerly.
He could drown in a touch like that, but it's not enough. He doesn't need harsh, but he needs more. "Make me feel good, please," he repeats, eyes closed this time.
He leans his face into Max's palm, which does not move away. On the contrary, he follows, understands and cups his cheek. Thumb wiping away Charles' tears. He opens his eyes again, only to find the sea blue ones boring in his too.
Charles lifts his head to draw his hand across his wet cheek. Max watches him. From this up close, he can see every hair Max must have shaved off just few days ago. His lips seem even bigger now. Slightly open, like he's ready to talk again.
"Charles, you don't have to ask for that," Max whispers like means it and under any other circumstance, Charles would probably laugh. Not tonight, tonight he just settles more in Max's lap and draws a shaky breath, spiked with a small sob.
Max's gaze drops, almost imperceptibly, to Charles' mouth. One hand lifts, slow enough that Charles could stop him if he wanted to – but he doesn't. The rough pad of Max's finger brushes against his bottom lip, tracing it like he's memorizing the shape.
It shoots bolts of fire to Charles' stomach. He wants Max. And he will do anything that gets that grants him that. He grinds his hips, taking pleasure in noticing how Max's body responds on its own. "Just this once," he pleas and leans closer. "Then you can back living your boring life," he teases, but it lacks any real bite.
Max's hand slides under his t-shirt and touches the skin on Charles' back.
Charles' breath catches, the tiny touch burning more than it should. Max's eyes flick up to meet his, and it's there – the question neither of them is saying out loud.
"How could my life be boring when I have you as a teammate now?" Max says instead. One would almost say mesmerized.
Charles doesn't bother answering with words. He closes the distance, pressing his lips to Max's in a kiss that's not hesitant, but not hurried either. It's deliberate, desperate, almost clumsy, as if he's afraid the wrong kind of pressure might shatter whatever strange, fragile thing has formed between them in the last few minutes.
Max exhales into him, and the hand at Charles' shoulder tightens, pulling him closer.
He locks Charles' upper lips between his lips and Charles can't recall them feeling so soft. They move in a practiced dance, licking and sucking and for once it feels familiar. Safe. It's doing everything to Charles' body, everything but calming him down.
But God, it works. How's one to know that this was the key. Charles is immediately possessed. Something in him – perhaps it's the Max's urgency, which seems to match his own – something in him is absolutely certain Max won't pull away now or leave him stranded.
A small bite followed by Max's hand reaching for the back of Charles' neck, and he realizes he loves being held in place like this. He's high, perhaps from the lack of oxygen that Max sucks out of his mouth.
He breaks for air only for a second, forehead bumping against Max's, lips still brushing, and then dives back in, hungrier this time. The noise in his head isn't gone yet, but it's blurred, muffled under the pressure of Max's mouth, the weight of his hand at the nape of his neck. Charles parts his lips just enough to let Max in, and the heat of his tongue brushes against his own, unsteady and consuming.
Hand swipes down his chest, passing all the way down to where his belt locks his jeans on. Charles can feel the fingertips locking into the edge and it send shivers to every nerve ending in his body.
Please, don't stop. He almost begs out loud again. Head spins and breath hitches as he notices Max's hand moving further, confidently unlocking his belt. The clinking of the metal is suddenly one of the most arousing sound ever. Max's fingers continue, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down. He cups him through his brief and Charles is embarrassingly hard already. Blood rushes to Max's cheeks and it almost makes Charles cry even more. Part of him forgot he still is. There is enough tears that Charles can taste them on his own tongue.
His own hands cling to Max's broad shoulders like it's a lifeline. Gripping the Ferrari jacket.
Max slides his hand into Charles' briefs and it occupies all of his attention. Until Max decides to speak again.
"It's far from over. You're Charles Leclerc," Max says, like be believes it still means something. "Think back," he whispers, his other hands keeps its hold on Charles' face wiping away the weak streams of salty tears that still keep rolling, "to the version of Charles that dreamed of owning a Ferrari jacket with his number sown onto it."
He kisses the ones on the other side away too."Would that Charles give up?" he asks, and Charles wonders how he expects him to think when Max's hand is still in his pants.
"No." An answer comes out of his mouth in its own, as he closes his eyes and focuses on the touch alone.
Max kisses the corner of his lips. "Would that Charles pick a brand of cars, a company," he kisses again, "over his own chance at a victory?"
"I don't know," Charles breaths out, lost in different worlds.
"You do," Max urges and pulls Charles' dick out of his briefs, holding it as firmly as the position allows.
"No, he wouldn't," he reacts, taking in the waves of first good hormones of the evening. It's almost toxic.
Max continues, relentless now. "You've raced with grief before. You'll do it again. I'm sure of it."
He pulls his hand off, leans back and pushes Charles' chest away, just a little. It confuses him for a moment, but it does bring him back to Earth. There's nothing casual in the way Max is looking at him now; it's steady, unblinking, and so bare that it makes Charles' chest ache.
"Do you trust me that I'm right?" Max asks firmly. Charles just nods, overwhelmed by it all. It seems to please Max enough to lock their lips again.
Every move Charles makes is one that his own body welcomes happily.
Like a changed man, Max draws his hands down Charles' thighs and in a way that Charles can only describe as impressive, lifts him and carefully lays him down on the pile of clothes. Makes sure to stack an extra hoodie under Charles' head, only moving against once he's sure there is nothing uncomfortable about this position for him. Like he would even give a damn right now. He's probably let Max fuck him on the hard marble floor of his bathroom.
Max braces above him, one palm planted beside Charles’ head, the other trailing down his side. His weight hovers heavy in the air, close enough that Charles can feel the heat radiating off his chest but not close enough to collapse into it. The Ferrari jacket hangs open, framing him like a flag.
Max goes to shrug it off, but Charles' hand shoots up to stop him.
"No," he says and Max stops his actions all together.
Charles speaks quickly, afraid to lose the momentum. "I've never been fucked by a Ferrari driver." He fists the front of the jacket, dragging Max down until their mouths nearly brush. "This is probably the closest I will get," his lips curve into that half-manic, half-pleading smirk, eyes glassy but burning. "And from what he's heard," his fingers slip under the hem to glaze across Max's neck, "it's not a bad experience."
Charles' words hang between them like smoke, and Max doesn't move at first. Just stays there, frozen above him, chest heaving, the heat of his breath brushing Charles' lips. "There's really only one of you, huh?" he wonders out loud.
When Max finally dips lower, it isn't careful anymore, the press of his hips pinning Charles down.
He presses back. "What does that mean?"
"Nobody's brain works like yours. It's…um," Max says and hesitates, gulps before he speaks again. This time, it does not sound so certain. "…Hot."
Something in his tone is off, but Charles is too tired and horny to dive into that.
He doesn't bother with undressing himself ,or Max for that matter. Simply grabs Max's hand and guides it to his own jeans, that are still buttoned up. Charles appreciates the fact there is no belt making it complicated this time. He'd do it himself, but something about watching Max unbutton his own pants while he's about to fuck him is sending his brain into over drive. He wants to be covered by Max completely, at his whim, at his mercy, have him make all the decisions while Charles is simply there. Only as Charles, no surname, no purpose or fucking destiny to fulfill.
Max swallows again, Adam's apple bobbing as Charles drags his hand lower, pressing it flat against the bulge of denim. Max seems to understand this cue, immediately he shifts his weight back just enough to free his hands, then unfastens the button with an ease that feels ceremonial. His zipper comes down in one clean stroke, denim pushes down over his hips, making his erection known through the thin fabric of his underwear. He does not wait and pushes it down too, all while not leaving Charles out of his sight for a single second.
Each movement feels like it belongs entirely to Charles, even though he hasn't lifted a finger.
Flat on his back, he can only watch – Max hovering above him, jeans shoved halfway down his thighs, breath uneven as if the act of undressing in front of him is heavier than it should be. Charles doesn't help, doesn't move, doesn't lift a finger. The sheer intimacy of letting Max strip for him is hotter than anything else. It pins him down harder than the weight of Max's body ever could. Even when Max leans down to strip Charles naked too, he barely lifts his hips up. Neither party seems to mind.
Max spits his hand and comes down to strokes Charles – and fuck, does that feel like coming back to heaven.
To top it up, he kisses the side of his neck, the sensitive spot he probably remembers by now and whispers: "I really hope you have a lube in this closet." Before Charles gets a chance to gather himself up for an answer, Max nibbles at his earlobe.
"Who do you think I am, Max?" Charles breathes out, barely holding it together.
Max smiles and Charles can feel it. "I already praised your brain once today," he whispers in a voice so low and quiet, Charles is surprised he can even make out the meaning. "Don't ask me to do it two times in a row."
High on serotonin, Charles answers, almost saying Max can just fuck him without it. "Bedside drawer, I think."
"Okay," Max drags his thumb across Charles' lips, slow and deliberate, before pushing down to kiss him – a promise and a warning all in one. "Stay here and do not dare to move," When he finally pulls away, Charles is left chasing his mouth like he's starving.
Those few moments he spends lying on the floor of his walk-in closet, staring at the ceiling, stretch like hours. Strange, he thinks, for someone who likes to stare up and ponder often, he's never seen the ceiling of this room from this angle before. Flat on his back, half-naked, heart pounding like it's about to tear through his ribs. It would be almost comical, if he wasn't so worked up.
When Max comes back, he looks flushed and immediately resumes his position. Shakes the bottle, opens it and squeezes some of the lube into his hand.
"It's a bit stale," he says, semi-concerned.
Charles swallows a punchy reply on this accidental dig. Yes, he hasn't fucked anyone in his home for a long time. Last time he checked, that was not exactly a crime. But, pathetic? A bit.
But Max does not seem to be focused on making fun of him, instead, he's focused on the lube in his hand.
"Also, you really should use silicone and not water based, it's better for–"
"Oh my God, Max, shut up!" Charles cries, astonished by Max's ability to side track.
"I'm just worried it'll hurt you, that's all," Max replies, keen on staying patient. Charles rolls his eyes. By doing so, he misses the moment Max leans down and grabs Charles' thigh with his free hand. He moves quickly.
Ah – Max's tongue is now unapologetically licking Charles's hole…And it's a whole new kind of rush flooding his whole body. Eyes opened wide, fixed at the ceiling, Charles tries to come to terms with the fact he now knows, and will forever know, what it feels like when Max does it. And fuck – it's one to remember.
His hand flies over to pull on Max's hair and his thighs start to twitch on their own. It's almost overwhelming.
Max comes back to level Charles and goes to kiss his neck, but Charles pulls him back on his lips, having an inkling Max would probably avoid kissing him on the mouth out of something as silly as a courtesy. Charles wants it, fully, unfiltered and unhinged.
The rest of Max's moves come by in a blur. Charles is ignoring the semantics, solely giving in the feeling Max lights up in him. It's taking over his whole body, pushing the anger and anxiety out, like it's an ugly disease. There is no way for Charles to fight the pleasure and not a single cell in his body that wants to. Before he can gather himself up, Max has already worked his body enough to slide inside, arms resting on the floor, unlike Charles', who's got his on Max's shoulder and neck, gripping him tight and close.
The stretch knocks the air straight out of him. His head falls back, lips parting in a soundless gasp before the moan rips itself free anyway. Hot, helpless, humiliating in how raw it feels – and he can't stop it. His nails dig into Max's shoulder, dragging down to the base of his neck.
Tears prick at the corners of his eyes again, uninvited, spilling hot down his temples into his hairline. Not grief this time, not exactly. Just the way his body betrays him when it's too much, too sharp, when every nerve is firing at once. His chest heaves, eyes wide, throat caught on broken breaths.
Charles tries to swallow the noises, bite them back, but they still pour out, little half-choked sounds, high and needy, leaking through his clenched teeth.
And still, he clings. Legs looped tight around Max's hips, cheek pressed against the Ferrari jacket that rubs against his skin with every shift. He doesn't care how pathetic it looks, doesn't care that he's crying, doesn't care about anything but holding Max closer, closer, like proximity itself is the only thing keeping him from breaking apart.
"Charles," Max moans, but he can pick up on some residue of concern in his voice.
Charles tries to swallow the noises, bite them back, but they still pour out, little half-choked sounds, high and needy, leaking through his clenched teeth.
"Don't stop, please, don't stop," Charles begs in between sighs and grips him tighter.
The rhythm builds, and with it, the realization – there's no fighting this. No control left to seize. His body has chosen for him, shuddering around Max with every push, melting into a mess of sobs and moans that blur together until he can't tell which is which.
And it's bliss again. Every part of his body that is in contact with Max's bare skin is making the rest of his body jealous. He wants to be completely absorbed and dissolved in Max's bloodstream, safe from any other people, outside forces or anyone who does not even try to understand.
Max drives into him, steady and relentless, one hand cupping the back of his skull as though he's afraid Charles might disappear. And he feels so safe. Charles clings tighter too, arms hooked around his shoulders, the smell of Max's sweat arousing him eternally, every thrust dragging another broken sound out of him. He's never felt so gone. So free.
When it hits, it's not a peak but an eruption. His body seizes, arches, mouth open in a strangled shout that dissolves into sobbing gasps. The pleasure's too much, too consuming, flooding him until he shakes apart in Max's hold, everything in him unraveling at once. For a second, he can see the two of them from above – tangled bodies that fit too well. Million tiny moments of their past, that might have felt insignificant at the time, but all leading to this one evening.
Max pulls out of him with an expression that under any other circumstance would be seen as pained and shoots a load on Charles too. There's cum on both of their t-shirts that they forgot to take off.
Charles breaths heavily, his lungs almost begging for some oxygen, as he stares past Max at the ceiling, eyes glazed, damp lashes blinking slow. The tears don't stop, though the sobs do. It feels like coming down from a high so sharp it cuts on the way out, euphoria collapsing into exhaustion, leaving him raw and emptied. His arms slacken on Max's shoulders, legs trembling and head leaned back.
Max’s weight is still on him, warm, grounding, but the afterglow already feels too sharp against Charles’ skin. He blinks up at the ceiling, vision still blurred with tears, and every second that passes makes the reality of what just happened settle heavier in his gut.
His body twitches once, like it wants to curl in on itself. He drags a trembling hand across his damp face, but that does nothing to erase the mess of it – flushed skin, swollen lips, tear-streaks shining in the closet light.
"Fuck," he mutters, voice cracked and too loud in the quiet. As his high leaves, it opens door to new kind of anxiety. Oh no, no, no, no.
Max will think he's insane. "That was… that was pathetic." He forces the words out of his mouth.
Max shifts above him, as if to protest, but Charles doesn't let him. He laughs – weak, shaky – and pushes his palms over his face. "Crying like some… fuck, I don't even know. Who does that?"
His voice dips into embarrassment, into the panic of realizing he's shown too much. He tries to wriggle out from under Max, to shove at his shoulder with no real strength, but Max doesn't budge. It's a silent battle, until Charles puts a stop to it.
"Max," he begs, hopefully for the last time this evening. "Please, let me go now."
Reluctantly, almost as if he's also embarrassed, Max moves off him and lies on the ground too, with a little "Yeah," on his lips.
Horror sets in Charles' chest. Suddenly, he feels dirty, the clothes on his cling too close, his face is heavy under all the sweat and tears. He gets up so quickly it nearly makes his head spin. Shit, shit, fuck. His hands come to pull his pants up and it's probably the most awkward experience Charles has felt in the last few years.
He does not turn around, because if he sets his eyes on Max in the jacket once again, now with cum stained t-shirt and limp dick, he might not survive his shame.
His body moves automatically into the bathroom, where he washes his face, deliberately avoiding the mirror as much as possible.
Fuck.
Whatever just happened was a massive, gargantuan slip up.
Charles has made this mistake before. Dared to rely on Max. And the cold burn of being left alone to get through the mud alone still stings.
He can't let him toy with him.
No.
Please, no.
Max, skip to the part where you're cruel again.
He spends good few minutes in the bathroom, ears out for any sounds that might confirm Max's existence.
Nothing comes. Part of Charles wishes Max would just disappear and forget everything that happened today. Another part wishes he's come over and despite Charles' spoken request to be left alone, defied it and snuck his arms around him. Kissed him again and made it knows it all okay and in order.
The reality, this apartment, it's all heavy.
When he finally leaves the bathroom, still wearing his old, stained clothes, his eyes immediately land on one thing.
The piano stayed opened throughout the whole time he's been absent.
He hesitates before taking a seat. It feels harder that he remembers.
He brushes the keys, as if to expect the texture to have changed, but all comes back, awfully familiar. The only reason why there isn't a layer of dust present is the cleaner that keeps coming relentlessly.
Charles played a lot this winter break. Not so much of composing, but burying himself in world created by others.
The sheet music for White Mustang by Lana Del Rey is patiently residing in the deck. Like it's actually waiting for him.
The way how it hadn't been moved calms him. Despite how his throat still closes on itself, he focuses on the memory of his melodramatic piano sessions this fall. Picked up this song only because he overheard the lyrics wrong – proved the theory that people hear what they want.
The misheard line why am I staying overplayed…Until, inevitably, he didn't stay.
Muscle memory kicks in and he plays the first notes. Carefully, because Max is still somewhere in this place. Still he plays, tired of denying himself.
Yes – he knows. Unreasonable diva. But he figures Max is not listening to his stupid playing. In fact, it's probably the thing that will drive him away. Post-sex awkwardness is not something that plagued them before, but this time it's different. This time, he's got no idea what to say.
He does not want Max to leave, but it's clear he will. The shame of all the trauma dumping Charles had done today kicks in as he gets to the chorus. He pictures himself from a few hours ago – voice too loud, hands fidgeting, talking in circles like a boy trying to reason with his own madness. Desperate for Max to understand something Charles couldn't even articulate, really. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't cool. It wasn't what Max signed up for. Part of him knows he'll be crying himself to sleep tonight and that is definitely not something Max needs to witness.
Still, he does not stop playing.
The notes of the piano, which welcomed him back perfectly in tune, do work wonders on his tired mind. As if to say – welcome home.
It's impossible to ignore the fact he has an audience. His fingers dance over the keys and he tries to recall last time someone listened to him play. There is no way he'd ever admit this out loud – but he craves for the attention. For someone – for Max – to listen. For Charles to hear the question 'What are you playing?'
To get the opportunity to coyly pretend to stop playing out of faked shyness, only to be pushed into it again. Foolish to think Max would ever come and sit next to him to just watch and listen. The fact he fucked him, right when Charles needed, does not mean anything else than a physical relief, and it would be foolish to think otherwise.
He closes his eyes. If real life cannot provide the experience, the only thing stopping him from living it in his imagination, is himself. With Max in the next room, it feels almost possible.
Max could fall asleep easily, if he felt like he is allow to. On the floor, on the bed, who gives a fuck.
He's not allowed, that much is clear. Charles keeps the lines strict. No kissing after fucking, a nod of approval and they are done. This time, there is no joint shower with accidental aftercare and Max does not question this arrangement. It's probably better not to. No matter how much Max suffers with emotional hangover when he doesn't get to unwind with the other person.
Charles is his teammate. A year is a long time to spend in anxious tension. So, he does not even open that door, ignoring the fact he might already be standing the room on the other side.
Simply mirrors whatever Charles throws at him. If it's avoidance, then Max understands and knows how to follow the lead.
Soft hum of a song Max does not recognize replaces the silence. It does not matter that Charles in another room, Max can picture him clearly. Sitting up straight, lazer-sharp focus, probably lost in worlds Max is not welcomed in. He can feel it spreading in his chest – the urge to get swallowed by the sheets and wallow in his loneliness until the end of time.
In a minute, he will go and leave. Now, he lies alone, with Charles deciding to get up and get dressed almost instantly. Max figured he was just getting them a glass of water or something. Turns out, Charles has already moved onto another activity, which given by the sounds filling up the apartment, is playing his obnoxiously white piano. Max is dying to make a sarcastic comment about him not even showering. He buries this comment deep, along with the anxious brattiness that's causing it. It's lame to fight for an attention with a fucking musical instrument.
How he even found himself in this situation, lying in a pile of Ferrari merch, is beyond his understanding. In his still hazy brain, it does not make much sense. Today has been more than confusing on all things Leclerc.
Fucking get it together, he orders internally. He swings his body up in one switch motion, all while trying not to make any loud noises and disrupt Charles' song.
Get up, leave. Before it might be too late. Max, you know yourself all too well by now.
Nobody here is interested in broody, clingy and touchy post-coital Max. Certainly not Mr. Piano over there. Max curses himself for getting spiteful over an inanimate object. Truly another level of lame. Pathetic.
After so much of improvisation and following today's whims, he's finally too tired to keep doing so.
He's got no idea what to do now, he's clueless whether Charles wants him here anymore, or not. Every move he can do now feels like the wrong one.
But he did catch the embarrassment on Charles' face before he bolted. If this is what he gets to work it, then it's almost obvious what he should do.
Charles is not playing for him. This is not a moment that Max should be a part of. He's doing it so that he does not have to tell Max to leave. In a way, Max appreciates the politeness of the gesture. Elegant, as always.
He takes his time, adjusting his jeans and t-shirt. Throws the stupid jacket of his shoulders and silently curses himself for even trying it on the first place. It's was an exceptionally dumb decision, something that Charles wasn't meant to catch him doing.
The room looks like catastrophic mess. Max was supposed to come by and help. Not leave the place in worse state than before. If he can't be there with Charles, he will at least finish this. One by one, he folds the clothes covering the floor back into the box, along with the jacket and all the other things Charles threw out.
When he's done and out of ways to prolong the process of his departure, he sighs, calls himself stupid for caring too much, and slowly exists the walk-in closet.
Part of him thinks it's wrong to just…leave. After all that happened tonight. The other feels like his presence alone is interrupting a private moment. Like maybe all of this is partly his fault. When Charles stepped out of the plane today, he was fine. Maybe not happy, but fine. Took Max only one evening to get him to tears.
Charles doesn't need Max lingering around, trying to understand the song he decided to play.
He walks, carrying the version of Charles from this afternoon like a pain in his chest. Quietly, in order to take up the least space possible.
Of course he sees Charles when he enters the living room, it would be impossible not to. The other man seems to be angelically lost in the moment. Destroying it would be a crime. A sad smile escapes Max's face.
As if even that was loud enough for Charles to lose the rhythm, he opens his eyes and stops when he spots Max. That speaks more clearly than any words he could actually say.
Still, Max speaks: "I'm…I'm gonna–" he doesn't even know what lies at the end of his sentence. And none of them will ever find out. Charles just stares, cold, uninviting, closed off.
No need to stretch this awkward moment. Max shrugs, nods at him and strolls to the door. Regrets wearing sneakers, because it takes long to put them on, opts for just grabbing his coat in his hands and leaving as abruptly as possible. It's torture.
He makes the mistake of looking at Charles once again, who's already doing so too. Max does not belong in fragile galleries or historical concert halls and Charles, sitting behind a piano like this, starts to strongly resemble one. There are thousand things either of them could ask. Instead, Charles goes back to his chords and Max stays silent.
Convinces himself it's for the best. Still can't shake the feeling like he's just committed a crime.
Neither of them says are you okay or good night or what the fuck are we doing. No matter how much is Max dying to know. He almost turns and goes back to actually ask Charles. But he's already in his own world again, where Max doesn't feel invited anymore.
They know when they'll see each other again. The flight details for their Sunday trip back to Milton Keynes had already been shared.
Max leaves without a word. And the song plays on.
Notes:
ahh
i can finally tell you that this whole fic started with a vision of charles fucking max in a ferrari jacket and crying about it
took us 90k words, but here we arewe'll be tuning down the angst now, because this was...a lot
Chapter 16: What in the Lestappen…?
Summary:
Charles likes to think he's great at PR. Charles is wrong.
Notes:
guys, i'm loving this phase of the story
aaaah
thanks for all those who read and comment - i'm having so much fun reading your takes
now onto the next one
Chapter Text
A weird thing happens with Charles. Well, Max would argue that only weird things happen with Charles, but that's not the point.
When he enters Max's plane, when he sits right across from him, long gone seems to be the boy, who barely 48 hours ago cried under the weight of Max's body.
No, the Charles he's more familiar with – elegantly cocky, confident and an endless tease – resides in the seat of Max's plane.
Max had spent his weekend bracing himself for a washed out version of Charles, who will do anything in his power to avoid eye contact. Hell, he was almost certain Charles will cancel on him, and rather walk to England, than sit with Max in a metal box thousand kilometers up in the air with no escape.
But, apparently not. Charles is smiling, looking directly at him, almost into his soul as it now starts to feel, and Max is the one fighting some levels of shame.
Okay then. Max will try and tune into that. Is it confusing? Yes. Is that something new? Fuck no.
In the days when Charles avoids eye contact, Max's insides clench and curl. On the other hand, when he doesn't, like today, it produces the same type of a reaction. Butterflies included extra. Is there even a way to win this at all?
They don't speak much on the plane. Not because it's awkward or anything. Not exactly. It's because Charles is busy nodding to the rhythm of whatever is playing his massive headphones.
Based on the frequency, it can't be a slow or a sad song.
Once the plane safely lands, Charles decides to grace Max with one of those killer smiles. Kind, unpolished, honest. He says one tender word and it's enough to nearly break Max in half.
"Thanks."
A weird thing happens to Charles.
Yes, he does spend the evening of Max's departure crying and wallowing around, until his body gives up. However, when he wakes up – in familiar sheets, with his ridiculously expensive mattress set up, makes the coffee with a machine he'd spent hours and hours researching before buying…When he gets to look out of the windows he hadn't dared to miss…He feels alive again. Somewhat okay. Like, perhaps, he can make it all work. Like trying, with the possibility of failing, is better than not trying at all.
So, he goes and to his surprise find the closet in a very different state than he remembers leaving it – strange, but fine. He finishes up the work in there, then moves onto the living room, then bedroom and by the time the departure time alarm clock rings the following day, his apartment is significantly less 'Ferrari'. And to be honest, it feels like winning a particularly complicated race.
He tries to ignore any Max-related thoughts. Friday night was a slip up, venting he probably needed, but what he needs now is to forget it ever happened.
He is obviously not fine and over the whole Ferrari legacy thing. But he's coming to terms with the fact he might never be. Onto new challenges and future tragedies to prevent.
It does feel like opening the windows after a long, dead winter. And to be fair, the slightly warmer Monaco climate does resemble that. The salt in the air, impossible to ignore, and the sun light that doesn't ask permission to be let in.
He had spend way too much time in that dreaded town where Red Bull set up their base. From now on, he'll make sure to be selective with how many nights he sleeps there, no matter how much it will cost him.
And sooner than later, it won't be of any real concern anyway. The start of the season is approaching at almost alarming speed.
To assume that with Anna's departure from Max's team and crossing over to Red Bull would have Max have to spend less energy on that topic, is proving to be foolishly naive. As much as Max tries to put this matter in the hands of his management, he will ultimately have to be the one giving the final approval.
"Absolutely fucking not," Max orders upon hearing the name his manager just uttered. "Fuck no."
There must be thousands of people on this fucking planet skilled enough to do what Max needs them to. Looking at how much time he is forced to dedicate to the world of PR, one might think the rest of the population has stopped working in any other fields.
"Why would we think that bringing him back is going to be of any help?" Max asks in that signature punchy way.
"Max, after the whole Anna debacle, we aren't looking for just anybody. We want the best. It's been years, you both have changed in that time."
"Great – so now he's not going to call me a stupid teenager? He's going to come with something new? How exciting."
"We've not hired him yet. Max, just have one Zoom call with him. That's all we ask."
After significant push back, Max agrees to have one, thirty minutes long call.
Funny enough, Charles' position of the most non-predictable person in Max's life might require him to step up the game.
A day later, after another round of pointless simulator session, Max heads to his office at Milton Keynes, reluctantly ready to join the call. He doesn't have to – because Niels Aarbort – the first person Max ever fired – is sitting in his office. Uninvited, not asking for a permission to make himself comfortable on Max's couch.
The years have worked in Niels' favor. He must be pushing 40 now, grey hairs and small lines proving that time runs fast and leaves traces behind. But he's radiating confidence, calm and it has been a long time since Max saw someone so obviously self-assured.
Max fights the urge to kick him out of the building immediately. Instead of giving into that whim, he just wordlessly enters the office, closes the door and sits behind his desk. The office feels smaller with Niels inside.
"You have thirty minutes," Max informs him, not even bothering with a greeting.
Niels chuckles and gives him a look. "I'll need ten. Maybe less."
Only a lunatic like this man will hop on a flight for a conversation. Somehow, he does that and still keeps the nonchalant aura around him.
"Security let you in?" Max comments, unsure if he even wants to know what he did to get inside the premises.
"Staff still remembers me," he smirks.
An old nickname his team had for Niels, all those years ago, back in the 'Mad Max' days, comes to haunt Max like a ghost. 'Hurricane Niels' is back in town.
He came prepared. "You know what your problem is, Max?" he flips through the stack of papers in his hands, countless array of PR Red Bull materials, screenshots and articles.
"You're playing defense," he says and throws the papers on the floor with visible disappointment in his face. "Always reacting, always throwing a tantrum at the fire instead of putting it out. That's why you're being outplayed right now.”
Max's eyes narrow as he stares at the papers, almost offended. "Outplayed?"
"The 'Prince' campaign?" Niels lets the words land, satisfied at the flicker in Max's face. "I must say, impressive work on Leclerc' part. He's got the world in a choke hold. All those sad people, stuck in their helpless lives, look at him and get hooked by the energy his move is gathering. Half the fans wanna be him, half of them want to fuck him."
Max nearly slips up and starts to defend Charles. Almost goes on a tangent about Charles being so much more than some PR wizard. But he's too slow.
"And what's your story? Would people really care if you weren't a Champion?" Niels looks at him, with the signature glint.
There are two things certain in life. Death, and Niels Aarbort never missing the opportunity to strike. A part of him wonders if letting this man run wild will only carve more distance between him and Charles.
"You allowed Charles to walk in and make you his little bitch in your own garage."
Max feels the words land like a fist to his chest. For a moment, all he can hear is the faint hum of the small Red Bull fridge under his desk, loud against the silence. Outside, the distant murmur of mechanics in the workshop drifts in, making the office feel even more claustrophobic. Still, he stays silent, stunned, because he's got no idea what to say.
"His team is pushing 'lestappen' agenda like crazy and it's working wonders for them," Niels continues his praise. "Max, I've been in the field long enough to see what they're doing. And the way 'your team'," he quotes with his fingers and follows it up by a condescending smirk, like he's actually feeling sorry for Max, "is steering it, is another fail in making. One day, this will become a case study in those cheap-ass online courses for wannabe experts."
The muscles in Max's jaw lock. He has to pace himself in order to keep this productive.
"You think you can stop it?" he asks, unwillingly agreeing with him. It's additively refreshing to hear someone saying the ugly truth and even having fun while doing it. Perhaps Max is growing into the habit of giving Charles the benefit of the doubt, one he might not be deserving of.
"Stop it?" Niels gives a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Max, it's too late for that. The narrative is already out there. Fans have swallowed it like a whore does after a bad blowjob. You can't kill it. You lean into it. You twist it until it's yours."
Max leans back in his chair, forcing a scoff, like he doesn't quite believe this is even a conversation.
If there even is a world where Niels returns to his team, he needs to know if all. "And if I don't stay here? If next year I'm not in this seat anymore?"
Niels smiles – thin, sharp, shark-like. "Then it's even better. You feed off Charles' good work while you've got him, drain every drop of energy and hype he generated, and then you walk. That's how you fuck off like a winner."
The casual brutality of it hits Max harder than he wants to admit. He wants to argue, to throw him out on his smug, graying ass – but there's a clarity in Niels' words that allures him.
Finally, Max exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "You're still an arrogant asshole."
"Good," Niels says, standing at last. He straightens his jacket, as if closing the deal is already past them. "You'll need one."
"You've gotten worse," Max concludes finally.
"No," Niels says, unbothered, his tone steady, eyes unreadable. "I've gotten better. You're just not used to someone telling you the truth."
Sugarcoating has always pissed Max off. And right now, Niels seems to be only one brave enough to avoid doing it.
Both of them know Niels has already won. Still, he speaks as he gets up.
"You go back and focus on racing. Leave this with me. You're as shit at PR as I am at driving," he jokes and opens the door. But before he's gone, he stops and turns one last time. "Perfect team in the making," he smirks and winks.
And Max hates the way he's ruled over by the familiar sense of excitement that only Niels could spark. Inviting this person back into his life is a mistake. Max can feel it in his bones. But maybe this time, if he finds a way to control him, it might actually help.
"Niels?" he calls him back, with a commanding voice on. He is still the one calling the shots.
"Yes, Max?" he turns, unbothered.
"No dirty moves this time. You don't even get one strike. Understood?" Max says, as firmly as possible.
"Good to know. Understood," he replies, Max would almost dare to say, in an impressed tone.
Max has to be clear on one thing. He can't repeat the same mistakes. Needs to set the line before it's too late. "Charles is not the enemy."
He lets that hang in the air. On track battles are one thing. Allowing someone to go for him in real life? Not on Max's watch.
"Never said he was. But it's time to push back. I don't cut my holiday short for nothing," Niels responds with a smile and shuts the door behind him.
Max allows himself to smile, but only once he's sure Niels doesn't come back into the office. He imagines this is how his cats feel right before they push a cup off the table for no fucking reason.
The Bahrain media frenzy starts off immediately. First official testing, the tired and revenue hungry news outlets desperately craving new hot topics to address.
This is the first joint interview Charles and Max have as Red Bull drivers. And they're getting prepped for it by both of their PR teams and the RB Racing media crew. As if they're going off to war.
Neither of them has even sat in the car since coming here.
The goal is clear – steer the conversation as far away from the engine as possible. Distract them with anything, avoid the 'explosive topic'. That's how Max names the engine issue and Charles has to suppress a laugh.
To delight of everyone, this testing will finally be run with a real, complete version of the car. The management were not afraid to inform everyone working that weekend. Five times. Talk about subtle.
Max and Charles are not even sitting next to each other at the PR briefing. Opposite ends on the table, separated by all the people working for them (and as it sometimes feels, against them).
Julia seems to be in charge of the meeting. Liam jumps in, but it's mainly her running the shots.
As always, she comes ready with a presentation.
Charles feels himself relax against the chair. Compared to the firestorms he's sat through at Ferrari, this is nothing. No tension, no guilt pressing down on his shoulders. Just a set of bullet points, a room full of professionals, and Max looking more bored than engaged.
For the first time since the switch, Charles feels like he's in safe hands.
The next slide: "Pre-approved Talking Points."
-
New chapter with Red Bull
-
Excited to work together
-
Mutual respect as drivers
-
Shared goals for the season
Charles reads them twice. Every phrase is so polished, it feels impossible to slip.
They run through mock questions, the easy kind. The sort of stuff Charles could answer on autopilot. Nothing sharp, nothing dangerous.
Julia concludes the meeting. "Are we all clear on the strategy?"
A sea of nods.
"Thank you all. Also, happy to see some new faces on board with us," she points casually towards Max's end of the table. Charles doesn't know any of these people. They don't look particularly threatening, so he doesn't bother remembering their names. He's focusing on Max. The new race suit fits him well.
Max notices Charles watching him and grants him a small, delicate smile. For a moment, Charles feels like they're the only ones in the room. It's not unpleasant. In fact, it's giving him a strange, warm feeling on the inside.
"Ready?" Charles whispers to Max, in the last second before they're called onto the interview couch. He wonders whether Max also feels the strange tingles in the air. "We're about to open another chapter in our history."
Max doesn't look at him, but the corners of his mouth shoot up. "I hope you'll like this one."
Without waiting for some signal, Max steps ahead, leading the way. He's all smiles and actually waves at the journalists. Charles is almost proud, his moody and grumpy Max actually trying to make a good impression.
He doesn't get to stay this innocently smitten for long.
The lights from the camera rigs are blinding, the back wall covered with Red Bull logos, microphones casually placed on the couch. Charles sits, straightens the collar of his new suit, and lets himself breathe. Just PR. Just words. He can handle that. Gentle on Max this time, since he knows how much he hates it.
Max takes the spot beside him, slouches into the couch like it's his living room. And somehow, impossibly, he's still smiling.
Charles has to force himself to look away, pretend he's paying attention to the rest of the room instead of the devilish smirk sitting right beside him. Other people – Charles has to forcibly remind himself that other people exist too.
The noise settles down and a presenter opens the conversation with a calming, professional voice. "Gentlemen, welcome to the FIA team press conference. Lovely to have you two here. The fresh teammate duo everyone's talking about," he says and the flock of journalist comes alive.
Unexpected sense of pride washes over Charles. He straightens up and feeds of the positive energy in the air. Because, yes – they are the hot news. How could he almost forget? Excitement flows through his bloodstream.
Max grabs the microphone and raises his index finger, grabbing the attention of the the presenter before he gets to say another word. "Can I have the first question? Just one," he bargains, using the kind of a flirty grin he usually saves behind closed doors.
Charles winces. Well that certainly wasn't pre-approved. But he welcomes the fresh energy. His first mistake of the day.
The presenter blinks, thrown off for a moment, then chuckles and nods. "Go ahead, Max."
Max turns to face his teammate and licks his lips. "Charles – are ready to finally address the rumor about secretly having Red Bull in your energy bottle for years?"
The room laughs. "Come on, we are dying to know the truth," Max's grin widens, shameless, and the journalists eat it up.
Charles shoots Max a sideways glare that carries more fondness than annoyance. He forces a composed smile, aware that Max just pulled the rug under him in front of everyone.
"Some things should be left as a secret, non?" he replies and takes a big gulp out of his Red Bull can. "I'll tell you when we're collecting the Constructor's trophy this year. To give you some motivation."
The room breaks into a wave of chuckles and camera shutters going off at once. It's harmless enough on the surface, but the noise swells into something that makes Charles feel suddenly small under all those eyes. On the other hand, Max bathes in it, like the laughter is oxygen only he gets to breathe.
They ask about the car and Charles skillfully deflects. The following question is not aimed at him.
"Max, has Charles brought any changes to the team?"
He seems take a pause to think it though, but he's not convincing enough. "People talk a lot about Charles' energy," Max wonders, not bothering to pretend he's actually pondering about his response. "Eager, passionate, smart and full of determination," he lists. "I see it firsthand. Good thing – I don't scare easy."
The same person follows up. "Would you say Charles pushes you?"
Max leans into the mic. "Pushes?" he repeats and raises his brows. "He drives me mad. Always nagging me, always on me. I have to tell him to fuck off all the time. But don't worry–" he turns, slow, deliberate, sending a little wink Charles' way, "–he loves it."
The room erupts – disbelief, camera flashes, heads leaning in. It's harmless fun to them. It's killing Charles. He sits frozen, unsure what's expected from him. This was not approved.
"Are we going to see a proper on track battle from you?"
"Obviously, it depends on the car…But I hope so. We'll have to see who comes out on top," Max says without blinking.
Charles realizes, with a sudden, awful clarity, that he's not safe at all. He can picture the edits already. The most alarming thing is that he seems to be losing control over the reactions of his body. The sound leaves his throat before his brain has a chance to stop it. A giggle – unmistakable, awfully telling, nervous, giggle – escapes his mouth. Charles feels the embarrassment crawl up his neck. Max doesn't even look at him – which somehow makes it worse.
He tries to cover it up with a fake cough. He knows they've caught it – and once they do, they never let go.
"So, Charles – no rivalry yet?"
Charles does his best to keep it cool. "Of course, um, there is some rivalry. We push each other. That's what makes it fun."
His words come out too slowly and clumsy. It's like he's nineteen again, fighting nerves with every coming question.
Max leans in, almost purring at this point: "He calls it fun. I call it obsession. But he hides it well," Max smirks.
Charles doesn't understand what's happening. Did Max forget he's suppose to be the repressed one? What is he doing?
“Would you say you bring out the best in each other?
Charles offers a cool smile, figuring the question is aimed at him. "I hope so."
Without missing a beat, Max chimes in. Awfully cheerful. "He does! He makes me want to try harder," he says and turns to the crowd of journalists. "Don't tell him I said that," he fake whispers to them and they all look like they are hooked on every word he says. Charles feels his head get progressively more dizzy.
From that point on, it's a freefall. The pace is set by Max and Charles can only stumble after him. He doesn't even register the questions, just stares at Max stealing each and every one of them.
"We've known each other for decades – turns out there is always something new to learn. Can you ever really be done learning new things about a person?"
"I could not be more excited. Everyone needs their prince charming, right?"
"He likes to act like all cool, but if I don't text back, he checks three times I'm still alive."
"That's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?" Charles fights back, trying to join in on the joke.
"I don't know – what about London, hm?"
"I-uh–"
"Or the time you begged me to go bowling with you," Max puckers his lips and turns away again, like Charles isn't even there and it's just Max and the journalist, his new best friends. "I won, by the way," he points at the crowd.
Another question passes him by. And Max talks.
"It's a blessing to have a teammate as passionate as Charles. Makes it less lonely."
"I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see what he digs up from the same car as I. One can only hope he's not twenty seconds ahead at the first race!"
"…he's not your prince. I'm the one who has to deal with him every day, so doesn't that make him my prince?" Max concludes, heavy on the playful sarcasm.
But it's Charles who feels close to exploding with…Confusion? Why the fuck is whatever Max is doing…working?
Why does part of Charles like to be pushed like this?
Everything momentarily slows down. The world narrows around Max. He's smiling, charming and oh-so-on-top of Charles. When they catch each other's eyes, Charles swiftly looks away, folding under the intensity. Stares into the ground like there might be a cue card there with an answer. He feels every single beat of his heart. Blinks few times, hoping it'll make it go away.
Under the stare of hundred eyes, countless lenses, the weight of them crushing him, a foreign worry sets. Fear of everyone seeing – Oh God, everyone will see that –
His lips curl in a way that could only be described as nervous.
Naked, he feels exposed like never before.
They will know. All of them as the same time as him, hell, maybe even before.
Alive. Charles feels like a layer of protection has been striped and there's nothing that'll stop it.
And then he makes the final mistake of looking at Max again.
It's the same Max that held him when he cried, the same one who pushed him beyond his limits thousands of times behind the wheel, never left a stone untouched. The same, and yet – somehow all new and different.
This strange, invincible lightness sets in his feet.
He's a mere passenger in whatever is happening right now.
Fuck. Oh no.
He misses the next two questions entirely. Someone has to address him directly for Charles to float back to the room. In fact, he has to force himself to comprehend even the most basic of questions. Let alone whatever shit these people keep on asking. It all feels surreal. Too fast.
"Charles?"
He turns his head to which ever direction the journalist calls him from. Can't see any face from the shine of the lights. It's like speaking to veil.
"Um, yes?" he asks, doing his best to sound normal.
"Charles, you two have a lot of chemistry between each other," the same voice begins and he has to fight the urge to snap 'No shit, Sherlock' out loud. Thankfully, he doesn't.
"Does it increase? Now that you have to spend more time together? This forced proximity – is it changing your relationship?" comes from a daring journalist and Charles can hear the treble of this clearly impromptu questions.
He also feels the urge of his body dissolving into the couch rise.
His eyes search for Mia, Anna – anyone. Any kind of help.
This is where they have to draw the line, right? Surely, this is too much. Before anyone else can say anything, Max is already twirling around with his microphone and with the most deadpan tone, he steals the crowd for the last time: "You can ship us all you want. It won't be as wild as the reality."
Charles' eyes nearly pop out. He doesn't even hear the laughter this time.
After the press conference inevitably comes to an end, Max strolls away. Patting his new PR Manager – Charles has yet to meet him personally – who pats him back too and they go off to the sunset of their Red Bull office.
This time, it's Charles who gets up on autopilot, doing the bare minimum to cover up the shock of an interview he'd just been thrown into. His training kicks in and when he walks back, nobody in the room would be able to tell a thing, or figure out his heart is beating in overdrive.
He does however break down the second he's behind the wall keeping them safe from the journalists.
On the other side, the whole entourage is already waiting for him, looking equally stunned. Mia is baffled. Julia is…blushing? Anna looks like she has many, many questions. Liam is the only one ready to speak. He does so very slowly. "Charles? What. The. Fuck?"
He just gulps. What the fuck indeed.
"That was so embarrassing," he throws his hands in the air, in a weak attempt to get the nerves out of his system. "I am never doing this again, Niels," Max rants and his body lets out a manic disgusted shake. "Come up with something else, I'm not good at this," he continues, raising his hand as a gesture of rejection.
Niels looks at Max like he's crazy. Like he's attempting to fly away with the way how much he waves his arms. Max sees this and in return shakes his head some more. Grins in a way that could only be described as violent. "Never, understand!"
He barely held it together all the way to the safety of his office. This interview will haunt him in his dreams for years to come, he is sure of that.
Neils clearly does not share that sentiment. "Max, come off it," he brushes it off and pats his shoulder. "You did a great job. Completely knocked the wind out of him. I am proud of you."
"Never repeating it, so, whatever!"
"Come on. What's the big deal? It's not like you're actually fucking him…"
Max doesn't respond. And in a way, that's telling enough. He can only watch the way Niels' face changes when the realization hits.
"Oh my God, Max," his eyes grow wide in disbelief. Followed by a disappointed sigh and an eye roll. "Again?"
Max just groans and sinks down in the couch, doing his best to ignore the judgemental stare.
Chapter 17: This River Called Denial
Chapter Text
Charles doesn't really know why this impromptu debrief has to happen in his driver room.
He just wanted few minutes of peace to do a mental check-in, but no. Not only does his media team follow him, Anna joins too and somewhere along the line, one of them bumped into Niels and now they are all standing here, dived deep in a heated discussion that leads absolutely nowhere.
Charles, and his growing headache, can only stand in the corner and watch.
Seven in the afternoon, last evening before the first official testing and Charles has somehow managed to weave a web that only causes to him to have become an involuntary witness a PR crisis management meeting he can't escape.
"In this team, we don't throw each other under the bus. We pre-approve things, topics of discussion. Work towards the same goal," Julia is almost yelling at this point, pointing a finger at Niels, who seems barely affected.
Liam flashes Charles a quick skeptical look, one which he returns. Surely, Niels is not foolish enough to believe that, right? Charles puts his head in his hands. Fucking hell. Why is it never calm for at least a day?
Niels looks back at Julia, immune to her stare. "I'm very sorry if we disrupted your strategy. You see, I'm new here, still learning the ropes, as they say. Please, understand, there is no bad intention on mine or Max's part! We just wanted to lean into the fun you guys have been setting up," he says, honey dripping out of his mouth. Hot, chilli seasoned honey, Charles figures.
He sighs. The kind of sigh that could probably power an entire wind tunnel. Nobody notices, of course – they're too busy measuring the sharpness of each other's teeth.
"This can't happen again, everything needs to be emailed to us with enough time to respond–" Julia continues and at this point, Charles makes a decision to stop this all.
He clears his throat, voice firmer than he means. "Why is this happening here?”
Four heads snap toward him like he's just appeared out of nowhere.
"This is my room." He gestures vaguely at the sofa, the still-untouched bottle of water on the table. "Whatever this is." He waves a hand at the circus unfolding in front of him.
On brand with today, everyone, apart from Niels, looks thrown off.
"Charles," Anna says carefully, "we thought it was important for you to be aware of–"
"I'm aware," he cuts in, sharper now. His tone echoes in the cramped space, forcing everyone into silence. "I am very aware. But tomorrow I drive a car, unlike any one of you. Thank you for including me when talking about my public image," it feels strange having to even voice it like that, "but I have to step away. It's your job now. Please, go do it. I'll be happy to debrief later."
The words hang in the air, heavy and uninvited.
Charles doesn't miss the way Niels' smile shifts – less honey now, more poison.
He will deal with him once he's sure he can drive the car somewhere else than a gravel trap.
They all nod, Anna apologizes and they head towards the door. Niels is the last one, eyes glued on Charles with fascination that doesn't seem to be faked. "Funny. You drivers – you're all the same," he says and waits for Charles' reaction.
But Charles is smarter than that. He just smiles, brushes past this, doesn't file this comment and politely points at the exit.
When the door finally shuts, the quiet hits him like a wall.
Charles drops onto the sofa. In his Red Bull driver room. Not Ferrari red, not Scuderia logos layered on every available surface.
He wonders if it will ever feel like his.
Ferrari was suffocating, yes, but it was suffocating in a way he understood.
Tomorrow he drives. That, at least, is the one thing that hasn't changed. The car will either be a miracle or a trap, and he'll have to find out which.
But for now, in this room that smells like someone else' life, Charles Leclerc sits alone, unsure.
And then, of course - Max. Almighty Max, that is starting to resemble a forbidden apple Charles will choke in, rather a sweet treat that'll slide down his throat with no issue.
The unbeatable smile flashes in front of his eyes, his laughter rings in his ears, hell, even the scent of his cologne is something Charles can now recall from memory.
The way his skin feels when Charles gets to kiss it.
Somewhere along the way, Charles must have missed the right turn and now the whole plan seems to be blowing up in his face.
It wasn't a strong plan to begin with. A tipsy decision made in a club bathroom is spiraling into a career defining moment. But Charles is not afraid of his ability to race Max. Oh no, that fire will never die out.
Still, after today, he's afraid that there will be moment – another one – where he'll get too tired and do something out of order. Laugh at Max's joke too loudly. Flirt with him next to a journalist. Crumble, like he did today.
This needs to go back under his control, fast.
But Charles doesn't get to ponder for a long time. He doesn't get to have the luxury to clear his thoughts. An email notification dings.
Subject: UPDATED RB Driver's Manual - Read Before Morning Briefing
Well. Not ideal to receive a thirty page long manual to study the night before. Still better than getting in the morning, as it happened more than Ferrari would ever admit. Despite all, he welcomes it. Throwing himself completely back into racing might be the only way out. He's battled grief and heartbreaks like that before. Whatever temporary confusion overtook his body, will not survive for long.
Charles is halfway down the hall when he sees him. Max.
Leaning against the wall like he's been waiting, though Charles doubts he actually was. Too restless for waiting – more likely Max had been pacing, circling, thinking.
"Charles," Max says quickly, as soon as he notices him. His eyes are bright, a little wild. Perhaps he's still high off from the way he made Charles melt in public. Charles is still waiting for the anger about that happening to appear. He should be mad. Right now, it's only the strange tingle again.
His legs stop. He's still carrying the weight of the last hour, all those eyes on him, Niels' smile lingering like a stain, his own head pounding. All he wants is to lock the door to his hotel room, a shower, maybe silence if silence still exists in this world.
But Max is in front of him, blocking the way.
"So, I was thinking," Max blurts, words tripping over each other. "We could go through the manual together. The new systems, all the updates. I have notes from last season, things I want to check against, and–" he takes a breath, glances at Charles, then down at the floor, then back up again. Battling those long lashes. Hands rested on his perfect hips. "It might be good, you know? To share. Your Ferrari habits, my stuff, put it together. We'll see things the other misses."
Charles blinks. It takes him a moment to gather all of that in. He doesn't know what he expected. Sarcasm, maybe, a punchy joke about Max joining the PR game full force. None of it seems to be there.
He assumed he'd rub it in his face. Not Max offering an olive branch, awkward and unpolished. Teammates share a lot, sometimes way more than they'd love the world to know, but not this kind of info. That's saved for the moment they inevitably become someone's outdated mentor.
And Charles hates the strange direction his intuition is pointing him towards. Max is different today. Erratic, unpredictable. What if this is him working Charles up so that he can strike him where it's going to hurt the most?
There is no doubt Max is an amazing and kind person. He's shown that many, many times.
But there is a reason why he is a multiple times World Champion. And while most of it is because of his unreal talent and unbelievable work ethic, Charles has observed many of his teammates lose the spark in their eyes while spending time next to him. Charles knows, because he's done the same to his teammates. Not that he'd ever admit that out loud.
So, perhaps for the first time ever, he can actually recognize a piece of himself in Max's face.
For a moment, something hot flickers in his chest. Then the headache rushes back in. The exhaustion. The fact that he just spent twenty minutes listening to useless bickering. There is no strength left in his bones to survive Max sitting close to him right now.
He has no other choice. No matter how much a part of him wants to say yes and do things differently.
"I…" His throat feels tight. "Not now, Max. I just – I need a moment."
It's the truth. But it sounds like rejection. Because maybe it's actually more of that and the truth is nothing but a vehicle.
And it's obvious to them both. Max's face goes still, expression folding into that careful blankness he uses when he's taking a hit and doesn't want to show it. "Right," he says softly. "Sure. Another time."
He steps aside, leaving a gap wide enough for Charles to pass.
Another time. It sounds more like another lifetime.
Charles walks past, heart beating unevenly, resisting the urge to look back. He can feel Max standing there in the hallway, vibrating with the unspent energy of an offer left hanging.
He takes the longer way to the hotel. Wanders around the lonely paddock, where the only thing happening is last stages of garages closing for the night. The air is thick, humid and heavy.
His feet move automatically.
One team after next to another, bright colors illuminated by white light.
He almost doesn't stop. Almost keeps walking. But habit is stronger than pride. His chest tightens with something that feels like homesickness, though he isn’t sure he has the right to call it that anymore.
Ferrari garage. Charles swears it smells differently that the Red Bull one.
Foolish of his to assume that Ferrari would stop moving forward without him. In his mind, Ferrari stayed frozen in the way he left it in. Panic flows in when he sees not one, but two new faces in the team.
They were supposed to be his colleagues. He might never find out their names.
The garage buzzes with movement, making it obvious that the world hadn't stopped just because of Charles.
And he wonders – what if this year will be their year?
Does it hurt more to sit with heartbreak and have a first row view on your love moving on, or perhaps is it worse to have the luxury of not knowing and having your imagination filling the gaps?
A voice cuts through the night. "You lost?"
Fred Vasseur. Of course. Standing at the threshold with his arms folded, red jacket on dark jeans and the signature, full-faced grin. His tone is lighter than his eyes. "Or you miss the good coffee?"
Charles chuckles. There's a split second where he considers pretending – just wave, move on, keep the distance safe. But instead he steps closer, hands in his pockets. "Maybe both."
Fred doesn't bother hiding his laugh, short, knowing. "Always dramatic, huh." He gestures inside. "Come. Two minutes. We don't bite."
Charles hesitates. The garage feels the same – oil, heat, paint – and he hates the way it pulls him in. How it feels like home, even after everything. Ridiculously familiar. The tire covers with Italian words instead of English. His eyes attuned to the ever-present red. The glory of past days.
It would be wiser to walk away. Still, he goes.
Despite the fact they're testing in public, Fred still orders to have the car covered. He leads them to his office, not that Charles would need any directions.
Fred hums, leaning back in his chair and waits for his guest to sit too. "So, Charles. You look good. Blue is the second best color on you."
Charles rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. The old reflex to praise the Ferrari red rises, even now.
"How are things? You managing?" Fred asks, like the sly fox he is. Charles draws a breath, but Fred stops him. "I have to warn you – I'm asking as team principal of a rival team."
They'd gone through several role changes throughout the years. However, this is a new chapter. For the first time, they are both in rival teams. Not within the same family, no connection what-so-ever. True test for the friendship they'd build.
Who knows what the future holds. Charles is used to losing allies, last few weeks have made him almost immune to the feeling. Loss for Ferrari as a whole stings deeper.
"Si, capito," he replies, eyes narrowing. Fred gives him space to elaborate. "It's different. Lots of things to understand." Charles' answer doesn't quite match the weight in his eyes. "Sometimes my body moves on its own on memory and I have to stop myself. Good thing is I have my specs on the steering wheel."
"Should we sue Red Bull for copying?" Fred raises his brows.
Charles gives him a look, half amused. "Our legal department has checked that already – no, you can't sue."
For a moment it feels like nothing's changed – Fred teasing, him pretending to be above it.
"Are you happy with the car?" he asks, clear intention behind written in his eyes.
A trick question. "Can you ever really be happy with a car?" Charles deflects and pairs it with a smile.
"You should try," Fred teases back.
"Well," Charles sits up straight, "We're trying."
Many questions burn his tongue. Does their power unit also suffer the strange sudden drop? Can they rely on it? It their testing going as per schedule?
He knows it would be foolish to ask. So, he bites his cheeks and focuses on fidgeting his fingers.
Fred studies him like he's still his driver. "How's your development going? Are you guys all done with it?"
No. Not by a mile. "Yes. It's looking positive." Charles stays emotionless. Opts to ask the next question before Fred get to. "How's Ollie holding up?"
This time, it's Fred who's doing the heavy breathing. "He's got some big shoes to fill."
It should feel good to hear this. His legacy.
But what is he even leaving behind? A failed promise? Soured hope?
"Not really. The trophy cabinet has a lot of space available."
If Ferrari starts winning now, what does that make him? If they don't, is it the proof they never could? The thought tastes bitter either way.
Fred leans forward, elbows on the desk, as if the lecture is inevitable. Charles braces himself, a student again. "Charles. Why do people care about racing? Why do all of those people turn their TV on every other Sunday? Why do they sit in heat, rain or wind on the grandstands and spend all that money just to see you drive around?"
He goes for the easy answer, already knowing it's not the one Fred is looking for. "So that they can share the fun of winning."
"That too," he agrees, but as expected, continues. "But the main thing is the story. The teams, the drivers, one would almost say the worst thing that can happen to a driver is excel to easily. Not everything can be marked by a trophy. You know this more than anyone, so don't play dumb over here."
Charles smiles with sadness on his lips. Fred is having none of it.
"Are you having a good time at Red Bull?" he asks with a sincere concern.
He nods. It's probably not so convincing. "I am. I love the challenge of something new. Max is an interesting factor. But you know me…"
"I do," he says but looks at him like he wants him to say it out loud.
Charles sighs. "I do wake up every morning unsure if this isn't a mistake of a lifetime."
The words hang in the room, raw.
Fred smiles, in that parental kind of a way. "Charles, don't overthink it. Most times, the easiest answer is the right one."
Charles exhales, long and slow. If only it were that simple.
Fred lets him marinate under his stare for few seconds more. Then, his smile grows and his hands rise up. "Of course it's a mistake! This year will be our year!" he exclaims in the way only he can.
Well, doesn't that sound familiar. They exchange looks and chuckle together, Charles resting his head against the back of the chair.
And that cements it – thank God he doesn't have to fall to that mantra again.
He takes a deep breath as he watches his ex-team principal. Same gestures, familiar phrases, but it does feel different. Like they're more equal now. Like the switch is something that grants Charles a badge of maturity in Fred's eyes.
Perhaps that's the silver lining. While Red Bull might be tethered with lies, at least…At least it's something new.
Fred seems to be able to read his thoughts. With a less jolly smile, he continues: "It was time to leave. I'm saying this as a friend and not a team principal."
Charles recalls them sitting in a similar room so time ago. When he went to inform him for the first time. Fred wasn't shocked, sad or angry. It hurt Charles. As if letting him go would cost the team nothing.
He might be more understanding now. Life moves on no matter what you do.
Fred shakes his head in amusement. "If it eases your melodramatic ass, the impact you made on the world of Ferrari will be impossible to replicate for decades. I've never seen a driver being so loved."
Of course that Charles blushes – who wouldn't?
Fred is immune to his face, having to endure it for years. "But you know this, so stop moping around and go do your job. I know you'll come back to us once you retire."
Charles pretends to disagree. "When I retire, I'll be off on my yacht ten months of the year."
Fred stays characteristically unbothered. "Great, we'll set you up with a reliable WiFi so that you can design our clothing line from the sea."
They stay and chat for another half hour. Updating each other on their families, friends and paddock rumors. Fred asks about Charles' love life. He doesn't think for too long and tells him that there is nothing on the horizon.
Once Charles returns on his walk to the hotel, it feels like leaving one of the heavy rocks he's been carrying with him, behind.
When he's done with his shower, after he munches on the pre-cooked dinner, once his nervous system finally calms down, he finally opens the new manual and dives full in.
As per usual, very different philosophy than what he became accustomed to at Ferrari. With them, it was options after options, different set ups and modes. Something along the lines 'this is all that we've tried, go figure out when it could be useful and listen to your race engineers. Now, Red Bull is very straight forward 'This works the best, so ideally stick to it. When there is opportunity, go for this other way'.
Charles was never one to assemble furniture by following the plan. Vibes, intuition and figuring it out on the go. But, he understands the importance of valid data.
Tomorrow, he'll do what they ask him to do. Test that approach out. The next week session will be the one for his own little experimentation.
He spends good part of an hour on the phone with his Head Engineer, trying to get into the same rhythm.
Even the most enthusiastic of coworkers suggests that a good rest might also be needed and Charles doesn't fight him on it.
When the words on the screen start blending into one and another, he tries to distract his mind with some random Youtube videos. Once that proves to fail, he goes and listens to some music. Equally useless. He almost embarks onto another late-night walk. Changes his mind once he realizes just how lazy he feels.
He knows what's happening in his brain. Avoiding that one notification popping up.
What is Max doing right now?
Is it too late to call and talk about tomorrow? Max is known for pushing curfew until early morning hours.
He flips onto his stomach, muffling a groan into the hotel pillow. Get it together, Leclerc.
Tomorrow, he tells himself, he'll wake up and be fine. Tomorrow, there will be the car, the run plan, the data. That's all he needs.
But the truth is louder: tomorrow, there will also be Max. Sitting two chairs away in briefing, with that blank stare and all the noise underneath it.
And Charles already knows – before a single lap has been finished – that keeping his balance this season is going to be harder than he thought.
It should be easy to dismiss. Sitting down together to analyse the manual is a bad idea. Teammates don't share knowledge like that. Not unless one of them plans to eat the other alive. Charles has done it himself – smiled kindly, while quietly dismantling them. He knows the trick. He should see it as a trick.
But still. What if Max were here?
The idea unravels fast. Max in the chair by the desk, legs crossed, restless hands waving around as Charles reads from the manual he insisted they study together. Max interrupting him every five seconds with some crooked grin, or a rude comment. Max asking, What did Ferrari make you do? Tell me in detail, with that boyish arrogance that hides real hunger underneath. Foreplay with technical narrative.
He should not be imagining these scenarios. He rolls onto other side of the bed. There isn't any miracle waiting there for him either. Just empty space. Too much for one person.
Fuck it, okay? So Charles feels lonely. Sue him. It's been awfully long time since someone cuddled him into sleep.
Oh shit, he doesn't even dare to actually count.
Charles feels his pulse trip.
This is exactly the cliff he can't fall down from. The thrill to jump is there, sharp and addictive, but so is the crash. And the fall is ruin.
Now…Would that be so bad? If like – no, come on, don't smile now, Charles.
The problem is, what if they worked? As like a…duo.
Kindness doesn't have to push the passion away.
Is Max the type of person that likes to cuddle in the morning? Charles is painfully aware of his own clingy habits. Someone like Max would probably smack him away. Strangely, even that might be cute.
Let's just – for a moment…
Only a minute.
Quick few seconds to let the imagination fly freely.
Charles has always been attracted by a playful push and pull. Even on a boring Tuesday. But that's not all he desires.
What if he wasn't here alone? What if his bed had already been warm before he laid in it? What was it Max said?
"I'm the one who has to deal with him every day, so doesn't that make him my prince?"
What a silly thing to say to say in public. Max is so unhinged sometimes…And then 'the noise' escapes Charles' mouth again. Seriously, what's with all the giggling these days?
Must be the nerves. His body confusing adrenaline with affection.
He forces a long breath. Opens his eyes again to the ceiling and whispers to the empty room: "Enough."
It is not funny, Max is not cute, Charles is just touch deprived. Needs to focus on the important things. Racing. Testing. The team.
It doesn't work. Because Max is connecting all of those.
This is so wrong – he can't just – ugh.
Okay, just this once.
Eyes closed.
What if –
Max drops his bag over to the luggage holder, next to Charles'. That wide grin, showing all of his shiny teeth. His hand slipping to the back of his neck, the other on the side of Charles' hips. A joke only Charles would find funny. A reward in the form of a sweet kiss. Just a bit of tongue. Max teasing Charles. Making innocent fun of him. Time passing them by.
Brushing teeth next to each other. A heated discussion about tires, one where they jump into each other sentences and barely get to finish one. Max lying next to him, naked, but calm and happy. Charles tucking hair away from Max's face. Light switching off. Late-night mumbles with occasional kisses. Noses nudging. Heat radiating off Max. His stubble brushing Charles' cheek. Hand roaming his chest and them embracing him. Charles nuzzled into Max's neck. A joke, a laugh. Tiny peck on the lips. Daring hand moving lower and lower. Smile growing on Max versus Charles biting a smirk away. His hips pushing onto Charles. Fingers brushing Max's neck, holding him in place. A bolder kiss. Fire in his belly. Head dizzy from the way Max holds his hips and spins his body to tower Charles. Skin on skin, fingers interlaced next his head and a small moan in his ears. Breath quickening. Push. Ins and outs sending waves from heaven all the way to the tops of his fingertips. The high, the sweat, the sighs, the pained look hiding the pleasure exploding.
Hand slides down his sweatpants. The blisters on his palm feel rough against the sensitive skin, but it'll have to do.
Body on body, Max on Charles and heavy breaths mixing. Kissing. Lots and lots of tired kissing. A casual love proclamation. Not the first one or the last one. Not a special night. Not a one time event. Just typical way of saying 'goodnight'. Secure. Safe. Trusting. Falling asleep with legs tangled and bedsheets stained.
Being the first to wake up. Having the luxury of feeling Max's steady breath. Lightly brushing his cheek with the top of his finger. Max flitching, but staying asleep. Waking him up by licking his morning wood, with eyes closed, knowing he's going to love the view.
Charles comes.
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goldsbitch on Chapter 2 Mon 04 Aug 2025 05:48AM UTC
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MyMainManK1d on Chapter 2 Mon 04 Aug 2025 09:27AM UTC
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